The Last One Standing
by Ani101
Summary: Sam defies his father to go camping with his friends, but when they're attacked in the wilds and he is the only survivor Sam comes to believe that he should have died too, and that it's all his fault…hurt/angst/heroic Sam, worried/protective Dean and John
1. Chapter 1

**It's been a long time since I've written anything, I know, but I'm in my last year at school now and even I was shocked by the sheer amount of homework I was getting…so you should be warned that there will probably be huge gaps between updates of this story…**

**This story is I think slightly different from what I've written before but as always there will be lots of angst, serious injury, the old Winchester family conflicts, Sam being a hero against all odds…I don't have a chapter count yet but when I do I'll let you know.**

**The title comes from Nickelback's _Savin__' __Me_ (which I do not own).**

**Sam is 15 in this story, Dean is 19. **

**I tried throwing coins into a magic well. I tried selling my soul at a crossroads. I even went to hell and back again…but I still don't own Supernatural.**

The Last One Standing

Chapter 1:

The old cottage spiked against the night like a fungus or growth, surrounded by close-pressing trees and bushes. It seemed completely cut off from the modern world, all but for the gleaming, distinctive black Chevy Impala parked outside it in the shadows of the porch. At that moment the front door creaked open and two boys stepped warily out, shivering slightly at the rush of cold. The older and taller carried a shotgun: his fair hair was short and spiked and his green eyes wicked. He glanced behind them into the shadows of the cottage before ushering his companion out in front of him, never taking his watchful, protective gaze off him. This younger boy was lanky and wiry, his unruly chestnut hair falling into his face, but in his eyes was an expression as sharp and mature as that of his older brother, and in his belt gleamed an unsheathed clasp knife. Suddenly he stopped, crouching down to inspect something on the floor of the porch.

"Oh come on, Sammy, you still can't tie your shoelaces?"

"Dean," Sam whispered. "Look-" He pointed to a triple-pointed star scratched into the wood. "I've seen that symbol before. I think we should tell Dad."

Dean groaned. "Sam, it's simple. We've checked the house, so we go out back and help Dad burn the bones of the goddamn spirit. Then we get out of here and hopefully get outa here before sunrise. Come on-"

Sam rose unwillingly, his eyes fixed on the symbol, unconvinced, but followed Dean round the back of the cottage to where their father stood panting slightly and leaning on his shovel over a freshly-dug grave. Sam felt his shoulders hunch slightly under John Winchester's fierce dark gaze, as if defensively: they weren't exactly on the best terms at the moment.

"You checked the house?" John rapped out.

"Yessir," Dean replied. "Nothing else to find."

"Except-" Sam began, but John sighed heavily, cutting him off. "What is it now, Sam?"

Sam scowled at his feet. "There's a hoodoo symbol I think I recognise on the floor of the porch. I think it's-"

"It's nothing," Dean muttered. "You're being paranoid."

Sam gritted his teeth. "You asked," he mumbled.

"Don't you cuss at me!" John snapped. "My God, is it too much to ask for a little respect from you? First you kick up a huge fuss about coming in the first place, some fool idea about seeing your friends, and now you just carry on being childish and selfish about the whole thing. I'm sick of this, Sam."

Sam looked up, eyes burning. "You asked if we found anything. Well, I found something and just 'cause Dean doesn't think it matters _I__'__m_ being disrespectful? How is that fair, Dad?" He saw the explosion of rage in his father's face, saw the effort John made to keep calm, and fear rose within him, mingling with his anger: he should not have said that.

"Go and wait by the car," he ordered Sam. "I don't want any more of your cheek tonight." Sam didn't move, frozen by the injustice. "I said _go_, Samuel!"

Sam turned on his heel and stormed back to the car, seething, fists clenched, wanting to curse his father into oblivion. Behind him, Dean turned a little awkwardly to John.

"You know, maybe we should check out that symbol," he said uneasily. "I mean, just to make sure…"

John swung away back towards the grave. "Don't encourage him, Dean. He's gotta learn _sometime_ that I won't stand for his stupid rebellions." He was already sprinkling lighter fluid across the twisted bones in the grave, and Dean flung down his lighter, igniting the skeleton into a grotesquely-human shaped fireball. Sam, leaning against the Impala with his hands thrust deep into the pockets of his hoodie, shoulders hunched against the cold, saw the flames leap up and sighed, casting his eyes to the earth as sorrow filled him like a toxic smoke.

He just couldn't work out what he was doing wrong. How he could never please his father, whatever he did…of course he hadn't been happy to miss the study group he had planned with some of his friends from school, but he hadn't fought _that_ hard. He'd come, hadn't he? He had just let his dad know along the way that he wasn't happy with it. And then thinking he might actually _impress_ John by being conscientious in his hunting, taking note of every detail…and somehow all it earned him was yet more scorn. It wasn't fair, and Sam was fast losing his ability to distinguish whether it was his fault or his father's that they could not get along.

Then suddenly he frowned. A flickering shape was flashing steadily towards Dean and John by the edges of the grave-their backs were to it, they could not see it. A spirit-it had to be the spirit they were hunting, the one that was meant to be already burning.

"Dean!" Sam yelled, lunging forwards. His older brother turned, surprised; his face fixed in horror at the sight of the spirit directly behind him, and at that moment Sam cannoned into him, knocking him aside. The ghost whirled, slashing wildly with the rusty knife in its flickering hand, and Sam felt the dead cold blade connect, slicing, felt a streak of pain along the forearm he threw up to shield his face, and stumbled back: there was a shot and the spirit fell back, hissing.

"Sam!" It was Dean's voice, panicked. Sam looked up, his arm stinging fiercely, scattered red globules of blood, and found himself beside the porch. He did not hesitate but stumbled up the steps, dropped to his knees, seized his knife and drew it hard across the triple-pointed star in the wood, breaking the symbol-the ghost gave a kind of anguished howl and flashed out like a light extinguished. Sam sagged back, panting, grasping his injured arm with his other hand, and at that moment Dean reached him and dropped into a crouch beside him.

"Sammy, you okay?"

"Yeah," Sam replied. "Yeah…" His eyes flashed past his brother to his father, standing metres away and scowling. Sam looked up into John's face with a mixture of apprehension and hope-this proved he was right, didn't it? His dad had to be proud of him now. Had to. But John's expression darkened as he noticed his youngest son's attention on him.

"Dad?"

"What is it you want, Sam? Congratulations?" John snapped, and strode away towards the Impala. Sam's face fell but Dean did not even notice, fussing over the gash in his arm. "C'mon, let's get outa here, I can't believe you did that, Sam, you're not supposed to put yourself in danger like that, you could've gotten yourself killed…" He dragged Sam to his feet, and only then turned to look down into his little brother's face.

"Sammy?"

"Why's he still mad?" Sam asked hopelessly, his hazel eyes wide and pleading on Dean's face. Dean sighed-he was just no good at dealing with these emotional moments of Sam's.

"Maybe he thinks you were going all 'I told you so'?" He made an effort to lighten the mood. "It's not so far-fetched, little b*tch."

"Jerk," Sam returned half-heartedly. "I wasn't."

"Yeah," Dean muttered. "I know." John pressed the horn at that moment to hurry them along, and Sam opened the rear door and slid inside without another word.

"Dad, I gotta take a look at Sam's cut, can you pass the first aid box?" Dean asked nervously, but John made a noise of exasperation. "Dammit no! He can wait till we get home, can't he? He's not gonna die because you have to wait an extra ten minutes to fuss over him, Dean!" Sam, behind John, drew in his breath slightly at the scorn in his father's tone, and Dean glanced briefly at him before tentatively disagreeing.

"But I think it's…"

"Get in the car, Dean. Sam's had enough attention for one night."

Dean hesitated, uncertain under his father's hard, unforgiving stare, then he dropped his head and nodded. "Yessir." He went round to the passenger door and climbed silently inside as John started the engine, trying not to look in the mirror and risk catching sight of the hurt, sorrowful hazel eyes reflected from the back seat. They drove back to the motel that was their current home in total, crushing silence.

John immediately settled down in front of his laptop, not looking at either of his boys, apparently focused on their next hunt already, while Dean forced Sam to sit down on the edge of the bed and cleaned the long cut on his arm with a number of antiseptic wipes from the first aid kit. Sam made no sound, though it must have hurt like hell-his mouth tightened when Dean probed the wound, but he made no other sign of pain. The bleeding had almost stopped by now, though the edges of torn skin looked red and inflamed.

"Don't think you'll need any stitches this time," Dean told his little brother, winding a strip of clean white bandage tightly around the kid's arm and fastening it with tape. "For once, klutz." Sam nodded: he looked very pale, and somehow Dean did not think he could blame the injury this time. "Sam-you know you shouldn't have done that, right?" he said awkwardly. Sam looked up in surprise. "Done what?"

"You jumped in front of me. You got hurt protecting me from the spirit, Sam. You shouldn't have done that."

"Why not?" Sam asked in confusion. "You'd have done it for me."

Dean made a frustrated noise. "Yeah, but…that's my job, Sam. I'm your big brother, I'm meant to take care of _you_."

"Goes both ways, Dean," Sam insisted, his gaze stubborn enough to be reminiscent of their father. Dean sighed.

"Well-don't do that again, okay? It could've been much worse."

"For you," Sam interjected. Dean scowled.

"Sam-" He shook his head. "You should get some sleep. You've got school tomorrow and it's nearly three in the morning."

"'Kay," Sam whispered. "Thanks, Dean." He stood up and went to retrieve his backpack from the corner so he could get changed, and made for the bathroom, locking the door behind him. John had not looked up the entire time, and Dean suddenly found himself nervous and awkward at being alone with his father.

"I'm gonna turn in myself," he said to the room in general. "I'll shower tomorrow morning."

"Fine."

"So what did you find?"

"Nothing yet. Could be a skinwalker over in Montana but I'm not sure yet. I'll ask Bobby."

Dean nodded. "Yeah…only you promised Sam we could stay till the end of the semester."

John shrugged. "He'll just have to suck it up for once if there are people need saving. He's spoilt enough already."

Dean wanted to object, to say that Sam wasn't spoilt in the least, that he put up with a lot, that just the occasional question or unorthodox suggestion did not make him demanding or spoilt or selfish…but he said nothing. It had all been said before and would make no difference this time. John was angry with Sam, and as always there was nothing to be done but wait for him to settle back into his usual state of exasperation and vague perpetual annoyance with the kid.

….

Things did not improve much the next morning. Sam was roused at five to run laps around the parking lot for an hour, his arm stinging and his head aching from lack of sleep. When at last he was finished there was barely time to shower and dress before grabbing his backpack and heading off to school, all under the unforgiving stern gaze of his father. Sam tried not to think about any of it as he walked to school, knowing that it was just going to hurt too much-he tried to concentrate on the day ahead, on his own life outside that of his family, his other world that more than anything he wanted to be the one he could live all the time. He had English that day, one of his favourite classes: they were studying Macbeth and he had decided it was his favourite Shakespeare. And seeing his friends, just spending time with them and being _accepted_ by them, that made him feel like a real person.

"Sam! _Sam_!"

He turned, entering the school gates, to see Mike running up behind him, a huge grin plastered across his face. "Hey, how was that family outing? Sucks you couldn't make it to the study group, we coulda done with your help!"

Sam shrugged, a bad taste in his mouth. "Yeah, I'm sorry. My dad, you know…"

"Yeah," Mike said fervently. "I get you. But listen, we had this great idea last night. The weather's meant to be good this weekend so me and Adrian and Tom, we thought it'd be cool to go camping down by Airman's Creek before the winter sets in, you wanna come?"

The first thing Sam felt was excitement-it would be amazing to go camping with his friends, and his instant reaction was of elation-he would _love_ to go. Next second, however, he was jolted back to reality-there was no way his father would allow it.

"Oh jeez…I wish I could, Mike. I really, really do. But my dad…he's kind of mad at me right now and I don't think he'll let me…"

"Dude, your dad never lets you do _anything_!" Mike sounded really indignant and Sam felt anger kindling in his heart-kindling at his father. He hung his head. "I know," he muttered. "I know." He looked up again suddenly, determination gleaming in his eyes. "You know, though, I'll ask him. I'll ask him tonight." He tried to smile. "You never know, right?"

Mike grinned, the light in his eyes returning. "He better say yes! It won't be the same without you, Sam."

"He'll say yes," Sam said absently, almost desperately. "He has to…"

…

"Absolutely not!" John exploded, seeming in his fury to tower over his teenage son like a looming monster in the cave of their motel room. Sam straightened his head and tried to seem strong.

"But why not, Dad? It'll be perfectly safe and it's only for the weekend…"

"I don't believe this, Sam!" John snapped. "You completely mess up last night's hunt, you cheek me every time you open your mouth, and now suddenly you want a privilege like going off with your friends on holiday? I can't believe you have the gall to even consider this!"

"Dad-please-it's just camping-it's not like you'll need me here all weekend-"

"You're not going, Sam, and that's final, you understand? You're going to stay here, you're going to train and you're going to research, and I want no arguments. Is that understood?" Sam said nothing, staring mutinously at the floor-quite suddenly John's hands were on his shoulders, shoving him back against the wall as he yelled into his son's face: "_I__said__is__that__understood_?"

"Yessir," Sam whispered, shocked. John released him and turned away-Sam immediately made for the door of the motel room, suddenly desperate to be alone, to be outside in the fresh air-to breathe free of the hatred filling his temporary home. He slammed the door behind him but did not wait to find out if his dad would call him on it: he was already running off down the hall.

Sam made a split-second decision as he ran, a decision born of anger and frustration and sheer reckless Winchester obstinacy. He pulled his cellphone from his pocket with shaking fingers and selected Mike's name from his contact's list, breathing hard to try and calm his fury before his friend could detect it. The dial tone beeped five times before Mike picked up.

"Sam?"

"Hey," Sam said, trying to sound as casual as possible, though his heart was still racing with passion. "Just wanted to tell you I can come camping this weekend after all…"

"Oh, really! That's great!"

"Yeah…oh, I gotta go. See you tomorrow?" He had just seen the Impala pulling up in the parking lot, Dean at the wheel. He did not feel he could face Dean right then, not after this deception. And in any case Dean must not suspect anything.

"Yeah, sure. See you. Wow, I'm so glad you can make it!" He hung up, and Sam slid his phone back into his pocket, heart thumping wildly with an intoxicating mixture of anticipation and anger, and guilt.

**Well, that gets it going-I guess it's fairly obvious that this camping trip is going to end badly… Please let me know what you think if you'd like me to continue this story! **


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, here's chapter 2, hope you like it! It's shorter than chapter 1 but quite a lot happens so I hope that's okay.**

**And I know people thought that John was not very…characteristic. Well, I think he's a pretty harsh person and we all know he and Sam fight. Maybe I went a little too far in the first chapter where that's concerned, I don't know. But I don't want to sugar coat him as some people do. I really like him, yeah, but he's not a saint. That's all…**

Chapter 2:

On Friday evening after school finished Sam did not, as he usually would, head straight off across town to the motel. Instead, he stowed his schoolbag and books in his locker, replacing it with the bag full of spare clothes, food and camping equipment he had packed in secret the night before. Mike and Adrian were both bringing two-man tents, so Sam had not had to worry about getting hold of one himself, and they would not need much for two nights in the forest. He was just glad he had never told his father exactly where they planned to go, or he had no doubt John would not hesitate to drive right out to drag him home. Even the idea gave Sam shivers.

He met Mike and the others outside the school gates: they planned to go back to Mike's house to pick up the tents and then drive on out to Airman's Creek. Mike only lived a few minutes from school and they walked it quickly, all excited. Sam alone was quiet and uneasy-he had not told his family what he was planning, and he did not intend to until he and his friends were safely out of town: Airman's Creek was an hour's drive away and he thought he would be safe enough from any retribution at least until he returned.

Return…he shuddered. It was not going to be pretty. But he had made the decision to do this and suffer the consequences as they came, and he would not back down now.

The four boys were met at Mike's house by his smiling mother Alison, who plied them with hot cookies and helped them get the tents into her van before driving them out to the forest. "I want you all to be very careful out there," she said firmly as they drove, glancing back at them all. "Stay together and don't take any stupid risks. I mean that."

"Mom…" Mike muttered in an embarrassed tone. Sam wondered why he should be annoyed: if he had had a mother to be concerned about his whereabouts and safety he would have been pleased. It would have made him feel loved, cared about. He felt a sharp pang at the thought, wondering yet again how it was fair that he had never known his own mother, that Mary Winchester had been slashed out of life before her youngest son had ever had the chance to get to know her…wishing that his mother could have been there to smile at him, greet him when he came home from school, love him unconditionally…

"Sam? Are you okay?" It was Alison, and she was watching him in concern. "You look really upset, is something wrong?"

Sam made an effort to master himself and dredged up a smile. "No. No, I'm fine, thanks."

Alison nodded, frowning, not completely convinced, but turned her gaze back towards the road. She did not know Sam Winchester well, but he was a sweet kid, and smart, and mature-and yet there was something about him, something almost wary in those wide, honest hazel eyes, an expression of having seen too much, of bearing secrets within him that no fifteen-year-old should ever have to know. She remembered Mike telling her that Sam's mother was dead and that his family moved around a lot, and she felt a wave of sympathy rise in her heart for him. She did not know what it was, but she sensed a deep sadness and loneliness in Sam, and as a mother of three herself her maternal instincts just cried out, irrationally maybe, to help him.

She drove them to the edge of Airman's Creek, a gently-bubbling little stream in a shady, secluded part of the forest, helped unload, outlined a few safety guidelines, determinedly fastened a silver crucifix around her protesting, flushing son's neck-"to protect you", told them not to eat anything they picked in the wilds, and left them there to make camp, warning them again to be careful. Mike immediately tipped all the camping equipment out onto the ground and stood there staring at it in comical bewilderment.

"Uh…anyone know how to pitch a tent?" he asked hopefully.

It was six in the evening by the time they were finished, surveying the two scruffy-looking tents with a disproportionate amount of pride. Sam looked around, feeling oddly uneasy-maybe he should put down some salt lines around the camp, just to be sure. He had brought a saltshaker just in case, out of nervous habit, but he did not see how he could do it without seeming extremely odd.

"Uh…hey, you know, what, guys?" he said awkwardly. "We should tell horror stories tonight."

"Bring on the blood and guts," Adrian muttered.

"No, seriously," Sam said eagerly, warming to his theme. "Like…hey, I know." He dropped his voice to a menacing stage whisper. "I'll put a salt line all around the camp, to stop the demons getting past." He went to his bag and pulled out the saltshaker, his face falling a bit when he saw the incredulous faces of his friends.

"Salt?" Mike said. "Why salt?"

Sam shrugged. "Isn't that what they use in, uh, zombie movies?"

Mike looked dubious. "No point. We can scare each other enough tonight, Sam. Don't waste the salt."

Sam hesitated, then realised there was no way he could insist and keep them believing in his sanity. He relinquished the saltshaker, trying to reassure himself-why would there be anything to worry about out here? It would just be too great a coincidence. It was crazy to think anything would come for them. Crazy. This was just a forest, as safe and secure and lonely as any other…

They spent the rest of the evening trying to climb the biggest of the trees surrounding their camp, all except for Tom, who settled down on a tree stump with his gameboy and shut himself off from the world. Sam tried to relax with the others but it was almost impossible, knowing that his dad and brother would be worrying about him by now, that they would be furious, that he should never have deceived them as he had. At eight they lit up the little camping fire Adrian had found in his garage, and made an attempt at frying sausages. Then and only then Sam did retrieve his phone from his bag-it was time to explain. He switched it on and cringed-seventeen missed calls from Dad and Dean. He closed his eyes briefly, took a deep breath, then pressed speed dial one.

Dean picked up on the first ring. "_Sam_! Where the hell are you, I've been trying to call you all freaking evening! What d'you think you're playing at? Dad says you must've gone camping, that he already forbade you but I swear-"

"Dean," Sam said hoarsely. "I'm sorry?"

Dean paused in mid-tirade. "What?"

Sam pressed on, struggling to control himself. "I, uh, I _have_ gone camping, with friends. I'm really, really sorry but Dad wouldn't let me go and-"

"You'd better not be serious," Dean said, his voice low and dangerously calm. "'Cause so help me, Sam, if you've lied and sneaked off-"

"I'm just telling you I'm okay, and not to worry about me," Sam said all in a hurry, hating himself, wanting to kill himself for worrying Dean like this, for doing something so stupid. "I'm sorry."

"Where the hell are you, Sam? 'Cause I'm gonna come right up there and get your ass-"

"I'm not telling you where I am," Sam forced himself to say, taking breaths so deep he was almost hyperventilating, eyes clenched tight shut, one hand pressed against his face. "You have to trust me this time, Dean. I'll…I'll see you Sunday night." He slammed the phone shut and immediately switched it off, then bit his lip so hard he broke the skin and tasted blood to hold back the howl of self-hatred and guilt that threatened to break free.

So maybe his dad had been wrong to forbid him to go. But he had been wrong, too, to lie and disobey and hurt his brother like that. Sure, his father needed to understand him, needed to realise that Sam was not just a good little soldier who would follow him unconditionally and have no will of his own-but this just seemed so wrong, so hopelessly, hopelessly wrong.

"Hey, Sam!" Mike suddenly called from behind. "Is this yours? Wow-" Sam whirled round to see his friend holding his clasp knife which must have fallen out of his bag when he had removed his phone, examining it admiringly. Sam tried to smile.

"Uh, yeah, that's mine."

"Where did you get that?" Mike asked, awe-struck. "It's a real beauty…"

"My Dad gave it to me," Sam replied, a bitter taste filling his mouth.

…

Sam lay staring up at the tent canopy in the darkness, listening to Mike's snoring beside him and wondering how he was ever going to be able to explain this to Dean and his father. He was beginning to think that he had gone too far this time, that it was not going to be easy to go back on this-he wouldn't be surprised if they never forgave him, and if his dad hated him forever. It was no more than he deserved, he reflected bitterly. A failure of a son-practically a traitor. He closed his eyes, wishing he could just fall into sleep and escape the misery of the mess he had created for himself-things would look better in the morning, he was sure. They had to. He slowed his breathing, praying he would not be tormented with nightmares as he so often was, particularly when he was apart from Dean. He had barely ever slept in a separate room form his big brother his entire life, and it felt wrong, and confusing to be so far away from him now, and so at odds with him.

He was just beginning to drift off when he heard a twig crack sharply outside the tent, and was instantly wide awake again, his sharp hunter's senses on alert. He listened hard-again, that crack, as if someone was walking, very slowly, towards them. Sam went cold all over-why hadn't be insisted on putting down salt lines, why hadn't he erected some kind of defence…he got to his hands and knees very, very carefully, hand reaching out for his knife, almost stopping breathing. Mike stirred faintly but then relaxed again, and Sam crawled forwards, fumbling for the tent opening and unzipping it as silently as he could to peer out into the night.

The cold streamed through, the night looming in with bushes transformed into crouching demons all around-silence. Dead silence. Then another crack, and the sound of heavy, hungry breathing. Sam's heart missed a beat-he could see nothing, but he knew with a sure and vital instinct that there was something in the camp, something dangerous, something malevolent-only metres away. Something was stalking them.

**Cliffy already! Reviews are inspiration-I actually mean that, they really do help!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Um-sorry for the slow update? But I did try to warn you…hehe poor excuse! However I didn't have much time to read this one over, so I apologise in advance for any typos or other problems…**

Chapter 3:

Dean flipped his phone closed so hard he risked cracking the screen, his blood boiling. Slowly, very slowly, he turned to face his father who sat in the driver's seat just beside him-they had been driving desperately around town for hours searching frantically for Sam.

John's face was set and cold. "He's camping with his friends, isn't he," he said in a tone of deadly calm. Dean nodded.

"I can't believe he'd do something like that, it's so goddamn stupid, doesn't he know how dangerous it is? Won't even tell us where to find him and jeez, Dad, what if something happens to him? We could never find out, this is just ridiculous, freaking Sammy and his stupid ideas…"

"Dean," John remonstrated quietly. Dean fell silent, then, as John began to turn the Impala around and head back in the other direction, blinked and started up in protest.

"Where are you going?"

"Home," John returned. Dean's mouth dropped open.

"But what about Sammy? We need to find him!"

"Your brother has made it quite clear that he doesn't want to be found," John pointed out, eyes fixed on the darkening road ahead. "I certainly don't intend to spend any longer racing around looking for him. He's nothing but a selfish, spoilt little brat and it's time he learned he can't expect us to pick up the pieces of all his messes. He's perfectly safe."

Dean stared, incredulous. "But Dad, anything could happen to him out there! I mean sure this is stupid of him but come on! It's still Sammy!"

"We're not going to look for him," John repeated firmly, rage flickering in his eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to him. That's my final word."

….

Sam, holding his breath, inched forwards knife in hand, trying to squeeze out of the tent opening without making a sound. He could still hear that heavy breathing, a sound like an animal far too huge to be natural in these parts snuffling around their camp. He finally made it out, pushing his sleep-mussed hair out of his eyes, and in a low crouch shuffled around the tent, eyes wide and almost blind in the darkness, squinting desperately for sight of their unknown intruder. The other tent came into view, the one Tom and Adrian were asleep in, and quite suddenly Sam saw it. It was hunched like a twisted old man at the entrance to the tent, in the darkness craggy as a boulder with gnarled, matted hair and burrs clogged in its fur. Sam almost stopped breathing, then suddenly whipped his head back around the tent as the creature turned, scenting the air, its fangs bared and dripping, luminous yellow eyes malevolent.

It was a black dog, a semi-corporeal creature that roamed the night and the forests in search of fresh meat and blood-its favourite food was the young. It craved the flesh of children, tearing it from their bones while they still lived and draining their corpses of blood-only their skeletons were ever found. It moved like lightning, swift and silent, and it was always, always hungry.

And it looked as if Sam and his friends were its latest prey.

Sam heard his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he struggled to control his panic and run through his options. Black dogs were allergic to silver, he knew that much: he had hunted one once with his father and Dean, though admittedly _he_ had just waited by the car, gun clutched in his tense fist, jumping at shadows until his family returned, the black dog dead-he had been just twelve years old. But where to find silver? He had his gun but only a few iron rounds to go with it-he had not seriously expected to have to fight anything…

At that moment the sound of ripping fabric split the night and there was a shout of alarm that quickly morphed into a full-blown, panicked scream of terror. Sam sprang to his feet, horror-stricken, flinging himself towards the other tent, which had just been wrenched open-he could see the twisted form of the monster crouched half-in, half outside it, could see one of his friends thrashing and struggling in the darkness-black liquid splattered the monster's fur and suddenly the flailing figure went horrifically still. The creature reared up and Sam saw the other inhabitant of the tent, Adrian-_God__no__that__means__Tom__'__s__dead_-fumbling backwards, mouth working soundlessly, too terrified even to scream. Sam lunged forwards, colliding with the black dog and burying his knife deep into its slimy flesh-it yelped and wheeled away from Adrian, the speed of its movement throwing Sam clear of the ruins of the tent-his head struck a tree root and he lost seconds in darkness. He struggled to his hands and knees, dizzy, tasting blood, to stare straight into the monster's gleaming, ferocious yellow eyes. The knife had not harmed it-he had known it would not. He had only made it angry.

"Sam? Oh _God_-" It was Mike's voice, sleepy and confused and rising in panic-he had woken up and out of the corner of his eye Sam could just see him staggering out of the other tent. He dared not take his eyes off the black dog that was now advancing on him-he rose shakily to his feet, knife long lost in the fallen leaves.

He was never going to see Dean or his father again. This time he had really screwed up, and his friends were going to suffer for it too-

"Mike. Get my phone, call my dad," Sam ordered, his voice a harsh whisper. Mike did not move, paralysed by terror. "Mike!" Still nothing. And at that moment the black dog sprang for Sam's throat.

He tried to leap aside-he was too slow, just. He went down under its weight, rolling as he did so to try and come back to his feet, but found himself trapped under the smothering black fur, choking on its stench of rotting flesh-he forced his eyes open and glimpsed the yellow, bloodied fangs snapping inches from his face. He yelled in terror and with a sudden burst of strength managed to shove it off him-it lunged again and Sam felt a streak of pain across his abdomen but did not stop to ascertain the damage, instead throwing himself backwards out its reach, kicking out into its face. It yelped again, head spun to the side by the force of the kick-its enraged eyes glimpsed Adrian backing away into the shadows, shaking so badly he was swaying on his feet, and in one movement it had crossed the glade and was on him, binging him down-Adrian howled in terror and clawed at the earth, struggling to get free-Sam stumbled forwards, head and chest searing with pain-unexpectedly he found himself on his knees, sight blurring. _No_! he thought savagely. He could not pass out now-he reached out almost blindly and at that moment Adrian's gurgling scream was abruptly cut off.

"Mike-Sam rasped. "Silver-need silver-"

Mike's voice was a squeak of terror. "Sam, what…what is that…"

"D'you have any _silver_?" Sam repeated, struggling to remain conscious. Mike pulled a pendant from his shirt with shaking fingers-a silver crucifix. "My…my mother said…would protect…me…" he stammered, eyes wide with fear. "Sam…"

Sam reached out and snatched the crucifix from his friend, forcing himself to his feet once more. The black dog was just turning back from Adrian's limp body and Sam readied himself.

"Come and get it then," he snarled, and threw himself forwards with the last vestiges of his fading strength. The monster met him mid-leap and Sam did not even think, or breathe, just dug the crucifix into its scaled skin as hard as he could. There was a rush of white smoke and the dog gave a kind of screeching yelp-it tore itself from his body like a scab and retreated, vanishing into the undergrowth like a breath of foul-smelling wind. Sam swayed-the world titled-suddenly he was on his knees still clutching the crucifix, now stained with black blood. Abruptly Mike's hands were on his shoulders, supporting him, his friend's voice calling his name.

"Sam. Sam! Stay with me!"

Sam fought to focus on his face. "Gonna…come back…" he mumbled. "We gotta…go…"

"But Adrian…Tom…"

Sam felt a sudden pain flower within him that had nothing to do with his injuries-he glanced to the side and Tom's sightless eyes glared back at him. The side of his face was torn away, leaving a bloody crag of flesh and bone eaten into his skull. Sam suddenly doubled over, retching. Tom, his friend. Gone. Destroyed. All because he had been too reckless-too slow-

"Gotta…go…call…for help…phones…in tent…"

Mike vanished back into the tent and soon returned with both their phones and a look of despair on his face. "There's no signal. It must come and go out here…"

Sam nodded grimly. "Then we'll have to outrun it." He gripped Mike's arm and managed to drag himself to his feet-he dared not take another look at his injury, lest actually seeing the damage would make him unable to transcend it. He had already cost them enough-he was just going to have to work through this. Together the two boys made their unsteady way in the opposite direction to that taken by the black dog, Mike trying the phones vainly every few seconds, eyes darting about in terror, hands shaking, while Sam just concentrated on staying upright. The darkness was breathing, full of red eyes and madness and pain, a neverending nightmare he had completely lost control of-the wind that blew was so cold it cut Sam to the bone like a knife.

Dad's right to hate me. So goddamn _useless_…

"Mike," he said suddenly. "Listen. If it gets me, you get the crucifix and you try and hurt it with it, any way you can, you hear me?"

Mike just stared. "Sam-what _is_ it? What's going on?" He sounded hollow, blasted, traumatised-for him this was like walking into a hell that was only supposed to exist in R-rated movies. For Sam it was life. Sam was about to reply, to try and explain, to some extent, when suddenly he stopped. He sensed something-he could not say what.

"Shh…"

And it exploded out of the brush like a tornado, cannoning into Mike and knocking him to the ground-Sam heard his friend's scream and threw himself after them, clinging to the black dog's back and stabbing it again and again with the ineffectually tiny silver weapon-it reared up, slamming itself violently against a tree-Sam was jolted clear and then it was on him, its slashing jaws in his face, slavering mouth closing in, eyes wild with hate-he flung out an arm, the silver streak of the crucifix catching the faint moonlight and blasting out across the monster's face-agony exploded up his arm as its fangs closed over his hand-he yelled in pain-

It fell back, yelping, and smoke was pouring from its mouth. Sam struggled into a sitting position, his whole body aching, head spinning, watching in amazement; the black dog was shaking and writhing as if being torn apart from within, and then quite suddenly it gave a piercing howl and collapsed in on itself, shrinking smaller and smaller until nothing was left of it but a pile of ashes, the silver crucifix glinting at the top of the heap-the creature had swallowed it, and it had killed it.

Sam was startled from his amazed trance by the faint, pained voice calling out his name. Mike! He struggled to his hands and knees, hauling his injured, exhausted body across the glade to where his friend lay curled and crumpled in a pile of blood, and his face creased with horror.

"Oh God, Mike-"

"Sam," Mike pleaded. "Sam, help me. _Help__me_-"

Sam could not speak. Mike's chest was flayed right open and he could see the dark wet pulsings of his body within, see the lifeblood spurting clear, the shredded organs. There was no hope for him-none at all.

"Mike-I'm so sorry…"

"_No_," Mike rasped, blood welling between his lips, his eyes flaring with a kind of panicked desperation. "No, Sam, you have to help me, I don't wanna die, Sam, please…_please_…" And though he was utterly helpless Sam knew that he had doomed Mike himself as he sat there, clasping his friend's cold, limp hand as Mike's breath rattled in his destroyed throat.

"I don't wanna _die_," Mike repeated in a terrified whimper. "Sam…I'm not _ready_…my mom…she won't know…don't leave me here, Sam-_please_, Sam, please help me…"

Sam bent his head over Mike's fallen form, tears pouring down his cheeks, never taking his eyes off those of his friend. "I can't," he whispered, overcome by the agony radiating through his whole body, the agony of grief. "I can't…God, Mike…"

And suddenly Mike blinked, and gave a sort of half-smile. "Sam?" he croaked. "Sam-" He was childlike, painless, pleading. He could have been five years old and apologetic. "Sam, tell my mom…tell her…I love her…okay? Will you…will you tell her?"

Sam's throat was choked with sobs; he could not breathe. "I'll tell her," he managed in a strangled rasp. "I'll tell her-I swear-" And Mike suddenly stilled below him, his head lolling to the side, eyes staring glassily up at the starry sky, and Sam knelt above his empty shell, alone against the world once more. He looked to the sky, baring his teeth in a sudden soundless howl of anguish, and then he reached out and very gently slid his friend's eyes closed.

"I'll take you home," he vowed softly, he reached around to grip his friend's body under the shoulders, then tried to get to his feet-he fell, entire body searing with pain, crumpling across Mike's cooling body. He couldn't do this. Couldn't…

He scowled, spitting blood. Somehow he managed to pull the body over his shoulders, as he had once before when Dean had been injured on a hunt, and Sam had had to carry him home. Mike was smaller than Dean. He should be able to do this. And determinedly, gripping a tree trunk to steady himself, Sam managed to lever himself to his feet, almost collapsing under the weight, swaying, pain making his head spin. But he stood, at last, trembling. He was badly injured-he did not know how badly. But he could make it. He had to make it. He focused on the impenetrable shadows ahead and took a shaky, pain-filled step forwards-he stumbled, slipping to one knee, almost losing his precarious hold on Mike's body. He had not known it was possible to hurt this much. But he staggered back to his feet once more and managed to move forwards, through a blizzard of pain. He could make it.

**Reviews are inspiration!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay, I do NOT know what happened and why I seem have posted/not posted by mistake...I'm not sure...but I am extremely sorry, whatever my or the site's mistake was, and I hope this is worth it! Sorry! Anyway, at last here's the actual chapter 4! And I'll keep on trying to figure out what actually happened...**

Chapter 4:

Sam was aware of the whole world tilting and cascading around him, as if he stood at the very centre of a massive kaleidoscope, spinning and whirling beyond science or logic and threatening to drag him down into its darkening chaos, Mike a dead weight across his shoulders, crushing him down into the earth. He reached out blindly and his hand connected with the rough bark of a tree trunk-he clung to it desperately, screwing his eyes tight shut, struggling to focus.

He had to get back to town. Had to find help, or he was just going to die here…

He looked up and suddenly through the haze Mike was standing there staring at him, his chest still torn open and bloody, revealing the shredded organs within. His lips cracked open in a ghastly smile. "Come on, Sam," he said, his voice morphing into demonic cadences against the backdrop of Sam's confusion. "You're not going to leave us all here alone, are you, when it's your fault we're dead? We're waiting for you, Sam, your time has come, come with me…"

Sam gasped in pain and shock-he was on his knees on the forest floor and icy arrows of rain were pelting against his neck and face. His chest was a blaze of agony-Mike was back hanging over his shoulder, his dead face pressed against Sam's cheek and so were the shifting colours. He was back in the real world.

"I'll take you home," Sam breathed to his friend once more. "I'll do it, Mike. I won't leave you here…"

"I know," Mike replied in a mere thread of a voice. "I know you won't leave me…" His mouth did not seem to move and yet Sam could hear his voice as plainly as ever. He looked down at the ground and saw that it was stained deep red with blood. He wondered how that had gotten there. Maybe there had been an accident. He should call Dad and Dean, maybe someone needed help.

"Dean," he said, and his voice seemed to echo oddly, as if coming from very far away.

"There's nobody here, Sam," Mike said by his ear.

"I know," Sam tried to say, but somehow the words never made it out of his mouth. Quite suddenly his body convulsed violently and he retched blood onto the ground, Mike slipping roughly over his head and thumping down before him. Sam retched again, uncontrollably, blood filling his mouth and throat, choking. Suddenly it was hard, impossible, to breathe. His chest was going from desperately sore to numb, paralysed-it felt frozen. Sam shivered, the cold suddenly penetrating deep as a dagger through his heart. Mike had gotten to his knees beside him and seemed to be praying, hands clutching the bloodstained silver crucifix. "I thought we left that behind," Sam said, but all that came out was blood. Mike looked at him and smiled. "Who else can help us?" he said.

Help us…

Somehow Sam's hand moved to his phone in his jeans pocket. Bloody fingers pressed 911. A clear feminine voice issued from the phone but Sam could only stare at it, dumbly. Mike should talk, he thought, and held out the phone, but his friend was lying motionless in the mud again. Maybe he was tired, and resting. Sam was tired, too. He would so like just to lie down on the ground for a little while, just close his eyes a moment…then he could go on…

No.

Sam slid his hand closed around his phone, took a shuddering breath. He tried to get up but his knees crumpled beneath him and a sharp pain split through his abdomen, and he saw stars dance enticingly before his eyes for a few seconds. Okay, so he couldn't walk. He wasn't finished yet. He grabbed Mike under the shoulders and managed to crawl forwards, dragging his friend's body after him. Mud twisted and squelched beneath them: a sudden burst of lightning threw Mike's torn, bloodstained, white face into stark relief.

"I said I'd take you _home_," Sam snarled into the storm. "And I _will_." Thunder cracked overhead like mocking laughter. The shadows were dancing-Sam could no longer work out which way was forward. He began to panic-he could not fail now, couldn't…

"Dean," he whispered. His sight flickered, then faded like a dying candle flame. He rubbed at his eyes but it made no difference. He felt himself sway forwards and the mud embraced him like a mother's arms. "Dean…I'm sorry…"

Darkness, then. The storm raged on, screaming its fury, but the two figures lying motionless under cover of the trees were oblivious, impassive. Too far gone.

…..

Whirling lights. Blue and red. Rain fell into his face. Bustling movement. Voices. "…gone …hours ago…male, fourteen to seventeen years…"

"Mike," Sam said, but his voice came out a broken croak. He forced open his eyes and a dizzying rush of shapes and colours overwhelmed him-he lashed out, panicking. "Dean-"

A woman's voice. "Easy there, kid, lie still, you're gonna be okay. Just take it easy…"

"Where's Mike?" Sam gasped. "Have to take him home…my fault…"

"Lie still, kid, don't wanna do yourself any more damage…"

"Looks like a ruptured lung, nasty puncture marks on his arm as well, hypothermic…"

"Hey, honey? Can you tell me your name? Where are your parents?"

Sam thought the woman might be talking to him, but he had no strength left to reply. He allowed the whirling darkness to take him once more, wanting nothing but to sleep forever. He had done something terrible. Adrian…Tom…Mike…

They were dead. And dead because of him.

So what did it matter what happened now?

…

Abigail Somers turned away as the kid was lifted onto a stretcher and carried into the waiting ambulance, biting her lip. She was new to the job and bursting into tears at some random stage in the operation was not going to make a good impression on her colleagues, but it was just so _difficult_. One of the boys was already dead and the other clearly not far off-all she could tell from their tracks was that the surviving one had apparently dragged the other some distance, trying to save his life she would guess. And in such dire condition himself…that took an unusual strength. But what had happened to them? Who were they?

Maybe her parents had been right, and she was just too sentimental to be a paramedic…

The kid in the ambulance just touched something deep inside her, that was all. Striking a chord of tenderness she had never truly tapped before-_something_ about the deep kindness and strength in those beautiful hazel eyes, his utter vulnerability, his kinship with death that no-one so young should have to deal with. She could only pray he would survive, and that they would be able to locate his family. Before it was too late.

…

John's phone rang, buzzing into the silence between himself and Dean like an accusation. He did not move to pick it up from where it lay on the grubby sofa beside him, letting it peal on unanswered, trying to focus on the details of the murder case a few miles East that he had been researching all night. Dean glanced at him, then at the phone. The caller ID blared out SAM and he scowled at his father before picking it up.

"Put that down," John ordered without taking his eyes off the laptop screen. Dean stared.

"What?"

"You heard me, Dean. Put it down."

Dean hesitated, looked back at the cellphone in his hand. And then set it gently back down on the sofa, turned on his heel and slammed out.

…

"Any reply from his family yet?" Abigail asked Dr Murphy tentatively. "The kid from the forest, I mean?"

Dr Murphy ran a tired hand over his stubbled jaw. "No…nothing." He had called the contact labelled 'Dad' on the boy's phone a couple of times, but there had never been a reply. He intended to do a more comprehensive investigation now that his patient was out of surgery, but it had been a busy few hours. He and Abigail were standing outside the ICU ward, empty but for the battered, lonely, motionless form of the boy they had rescued from the forest.

"We found…two other bodies," Abigail reported now. "The ruins of a campsite. Must have been some kind of animal attack…but there are none of the usual signs of bears and it's the wrong time of year anyway…" She shrugged. "Looks like this kid was the only survivor."

Dr Murphy nodded slowly, remembering reluctantly the hours of surgery, the nightmare moments when the boy's punctured lung had collapsed, when his heart had stopped for more than a minute, the seconds when he had come close to wakefulness screaming and struggling in the black depths of panic. How he had scraped past death was inches to spare and even now teetered on the brink of the abyss. "He's clearly a fighter," he said almost to himself. "Got some real strength in him. I've known many who couldn't've survived a fraction of what he has."

"We'd just better pray he keeps fighting then," Abigail murmured. "How's he doing now?"

"He's sedated right now," Dr Murphy told her quietly. "But he's been through hell. We won't know what kind of state he's really in till he wakes up. And there are sure to be psychological damages, if he did see the other boys die."

"I just hope we manage to contact his family then," Abigail mused. "The kid's gonna need them now like never before."

…

_Sam __was __walking __through __total __darkness: __he __could __not __hear __his __footfalls __on __the __ground __nor __his __own __breathing __in __his __ears. __It __was __as __if __he __did __not __have __a __body __at __all. __Then, __quite __suddenly, __as __if __in __a __bright __spotlight, __he __glimpsed __Mike __kneeling __on __the __ground, __hunched __over __with __his __hands __clasped __as __if __in __prayer. __He __stopped, __uncertain, __unwilling __to __disturb __him, __but __sensing __his __presence __Mike __looked __up __and __slowly __got __to __his __feet._

_ "Sam," he said, smiling, his voice echoing oddly. "You came at last."_

_ "What is this place?" Sam asked, bewildered. All around them he could still see nothing. "How did we get here?"_

_ Mike tilted his head slightly to one side. "I've been waiting for you a long time," was all he said. "So have the others."_

_ "The others?" But already Sam could see them, his friends Tom and Adrian, stepping up to flank Mike like bodyguards, one on either side, standing facing him. They were all smiling, as if in welcome._

_ "We knew you wouldn't leave us," Tom said. "We knew you'd come."_

_ "Now things are right," Mike added. "It was only ever wrong for you to go on when we had to die."_

_ Die…_

_ Sam __took __an __involuntary __step __back.__ "__You __mean __you__'__re _dead_?__" __he __said, __his __voice __cracking __a __little. __Mike__'__s __smile __was __replaced __by __an __expression __of __concern.__ "__Of __course, __Sam, __and __you __are __too, __don__'__t __you __remember?__"_

_ Sam only stared, speechless, a rising panic welling up inside his chest._

_ "You got us killed, Sam, by that black dog, remember? You knew the danger. Why didn't you save us?" Adrian's voice was gently accusatory, disappointed-he could have been a kind teacher reprimanding Sam for peeking at his notes during a test. "Why should you survive, when you failed to save us? It doesn't even make sense."_

_ "No," Sam said numbly. "No, wait, no, I'm not dead, I'm not, it's not my time…"_

_"__Oh __but __it __is,__" __Mike __said __softly.__ "__You __think __you __can __just __do __what __you __like __without __getting __punished?__" __And __then __John __Winchester __was __standing __beside __him, __his __face __grim __and __cold __and __filled __with __hatred __and __scorn.__ "__You __disobeyed __me, __Sam,__" __he __said __simply. __ "__You __betrayed __your __family. __You __chose __to __leave __us __behind. __You __think __that __won__'__t __have __consequences? __It__'__s __just __too __bad __your __friends __got __in __the __way __of _your _bad __luck, _your _screwups, _your _punishment. __Sad, __really.__" __And __he __turned __and __walked __away __into __the __darkness, __leaving __Sam __standing __there, __voicelessly __shouting __his __name __into __the __void._

_ "Dad-"_

_ Mike held out his hand, smiling once more. "Come on, Sam. It's time. You know it's time. It's only justice."_

_ But __Sam __stepped __back, __fear __and __horror __and __anguish __filling __him, __stepped __back __again __and __nearly __fell.__ "__Dean,__" __he __whispered.__ "__Dean, __please , __you __gotta __help __me-__" __But __there __was __no __sense __of __his __brother, __Dean__'__s __presence __completely __absent __from __this __world __and __this __time. __Panicked, __Sam __turned __and __ran, __stumbling __through __the __darkness, __sobbing __for __breath, __running __and __running __through __utter __blindness __until __he __could __run __no __more, __until __he __felt __himself, __finally, __falling__…__and __falling __forever_.

**Okay this had better have posted properly...again my apologies! Please let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Well I just have to say I have been amazed by the response to this story! Again thanks to everyone who read and reviewed, you are epic!**

Chapter 5:

It was Sunday night and close to midnight: Sam should have been home long ago and even John was getting worried. Sam had tried calling him so many times he had just switched his phone off; his son had done something stupid and selfish, and it was about time he learned that such actions would have consequences. John certainly wasn't going to listen to his pathetic apologies and pleas for forgiveness now.

But he should have been home…

"Dad." It was Dean standing in the doorway, arms folded. "I'm going to call Sam."

John turned away from his older son, guilt and hurt settling on him like a shroud. "Fine. Go ahead."

He heard the minute beeps of Dean selecting Sam's number, the ring tone as he held the cellphone to his ear. Then a male voice on the other end, whose words John could not make out. What he did perceive was Dean's sharp intake of breath.

"Oh, God! Is he okay?"

John whirled round. "Dean?"

Dean's face was twisted in horror-he was no longer even aware of his father. "Where is he?" he demanded, already fumbling for the Impala keys. "Is he conscious? What happened?"

John snatched the phone away from his son. "This is John Winchester, what the hell is going on?" he thundered down the line. A surprised, cultured voice at the other end replied: "Does your son own this phone?"

"Yes, this is my son Sam's phone, where the hell is he!"

"My name is Dr Murphy…your son is at St Peter's hospital where he was brought two nights ago following some kind of wild animal attack…I'm very sorry, we've been trying to contact you for days…"

John was already racing for the car, Dean at his side. "We'll be there as quickly as possible. Can you put Sam on the line? How is he?"

"Well I can't really discuss that over the phone…how soon can you be here?"

"Ten minutes," John snarled grimly. "Ten minutes and I'll want to see my son!"

…

The two Winchesters stood with Dr Murphy before the glass window looking into Sam's room, John silent and brooding, Dean a bundle of nerves.

"He's done extraordinarily well to have come this far," Dr Murphy told them gently. "He had a punctured lung due to severe wounds to the chest, which collapsed in surgery, and numerous other gashes and bite marks. We still haven't been able to identify what it was that was responsible for this…he'd also suffered a fairly severe concussion and he was hypothermic when we found him, we're worried about possible pulmonary infections now."

"Infection like what?" Dean demanded.

"Pneumonia is a possibility, also bronchitis. The fact that he was so chilled with only one functioning lung is quite worrying, it means it will have been working for both of them and exerting more strain on his body overall." He shrugged. "As I say, that is not a certainty." He hesitated. "You, uh, should also know that Sam coded for over a minute during surgery. We…almost couldn't restart his heart."

Dean had gone white. "When's he gonna wake up?" he demanded in a strangled voice.

"He's still sedated," Dr Murphy explained. "It's necessary as we had to put a breathing tube in…"

Dean ignored this, pushed past the doctor and shoved the door open, immediately striding across to the bed and dropping onto the side of it, taking one of Sam's limp hands in his.

"You stupid eejit, isn't this a good enough reason not to pull stunts like that?" he reprimanded Sam's unconscious form in a wobbly voice. "When this kind of thing happens…"

"He should be coming round in an hour or so," Dr Murphy told Dean quietly. "Keep on talking to him, though. I think it's good for him to hear your voices." He glanced at John, but the man was turned away, head lowered, eyes grim and filled with some dark emotion he could not name. Unsettled he looked back at Dean. "I have to check on some other patients now but if you need me just press the call button." Dean nodded but did not look up, eyes fixed on Sam. John did not even react.

In almost exactly an hour, an hour which John spent quite literally staring at the wall and Dean rambling at Sam about any random subject that came into his head, Sam did begin to stir, his eyes clenching tighter, moving his head restlessly on the pillow. Dean's heart leapt. "Sammy? Hey, Sammy? Can you hear me?"

Sam's eyes were still shut tight but his hands came up, scrabbling desperately and confusedly at the breathing tube down his throat. Dean grabbed them and pulled them away: "No, Sammy. You need that to help you breathe right now, 'kay? Just relax."

"Dean?" Sam croaked, voice muffled and distorted by the tube. "Couldn't…couldn't _find_ you…thought…punished…"

"Hey, easy Sammy, you're not making any sense here. Can you open your eyes?"

Sam managed to crack his eyes open, and with some effort focused on his older brother before him. Almost instantly his face crumpled and he gasped.

"Sam? What's wrong?"

"Hurts," Sam hissed through gritted teeth.

"Where?"

"Head…"

"Uh…okay…don't worry, okay, you had a bad concussion, again, just close your eyes okay? It'll get better…" Dean cast a concerned glance over at John, who still had not moved. "You…you went through a lot, Sammy…"

"What…what happened?" Sam whispered. "Remember…Mike…was a storm, right?"

Dean felt uncomfortable. "We, uh, don't really know what happened. You…you were camping, remember?"

Suddenly Sam's eyes snapped open. "_No_," he breathed. "No, black dog, have to…have to get back…save them-" He struggled to sit up in bed but Dean saw the pain flash across his face and he swayed back, sobbing for breath. The older brother gripped his shoulders, stilling him, peering intently into his face. "Take it easy, Sammy," he urged. "You're injured, okay? Nothing's going to happen."

And suddenly John was there, looming beside Sam's bed like a black marble pillar. "Are you saying you were attacked by a black dog?" he demanded coldly. Sam blinked up at him through eyes burning with unshed tears. "Y…yessir," he whispered.

"Dad," Dean said softly, uncertainly.

"Quiet, Dean. Where was this, Sam? What happened to the black dog?"

"Airman's Creek," Sam muttered. "It's…it's dead."

John's face creased with contempt. "Oh, dead is it? And who killed it, then? _You_?"

Sam's face turned up to him, etched with hurt. He did not reply.

"I see," John hissed. "So you skip off camping with your friends, like the fool you are taking no weapons and no precautions, not even deigning to tell me or your brother where you were, and get yourself attacked by a back dog. And who pays the price for your mistakes, Sam? Your friends. Three of them, all dead, do you even realise that? Do you even _realise_ what you've done? Your selfishness and stupidity cost them their _lives_! God, Sam. I'm ashamed to call you my son right now."

Dean was staring open-mouthed. Sam lowered his head, hunching his shoulders as if in defence, and nodded. "I know, sir," he said, so quietly it was almost inaudible. And at that exact moment the door banged open and Dr Murphy strode inside.

"Ah, Sam, you're awake! That's really wonderful! How are you feeling?"

Sam looked up at the doctor through eyes filled with anguish. "I'm okay, thanks," he whispered.

…

"Mr Winchester, I really can't advise your taking Sam home just yet," Dr Murphy said uncomfortably. John folded his arms and leaned forwards across the doctor's desk.

"Why not? You said he was going to be fine. And he's been here five days now."

"Well it certainly seems as if he's dodged a bullet here but you must understand that there is no way I can be sure. Sam's injuries were life-threatening and there could be any number of complications to deal with yet, and he's still very weak."

"I can deal with that," John stated. "I used to be in the marines, I'm quite capable of taking care of my own son."

Dr Murphy bit back his immediate response. It was not his place to question the wisdom of actually letting Sam, in his current delicate condition, actually go with this cold, savage man-it was just that he _wanted_ to. He had children of his own, and just _something_ about Sam Winchester compelled him, seemed to beg him to protect him like one of them. Maybe it was his eyes, that wide, wary, vulnerable, determined expression burning in their hazel depths; or the way he instinctively leaned towards his older brother Dean when faced with any conflict at all-even in his nightmares.

But this was his _father_.

"It is not only Sam's physical condition I'm concerned about," he said quietly. "There are sure to be psychological repercussions after what he's been through. Are you prepared to deal with that?"

"Sam's tougher than you think," John said in a tone of finality. "That won't be a problem."

"I'm not questioning his strength," Dr Murphy pointed out through gritted teeth. "He saw three of his friends die in a truly horrific way, and came far too close to following them himself. That constitutes a severe trauma, Mr Winchester, and however _tough_ Sam is he isn't going to just forget about it."

John stood up, eyes hard, his body language signifying that the interview was over. "You don't know my boy," he stated, and despite his anger at Sam there was a note of pride in his voice. If he had not been speaking to the doctor he could have added how Sam had seen far worse, been through far worse, and that in any case he would have no business being so torn up over his friends' deaths-it wasn't as if he had known them for long, and they could be nothing to him over John himself and Dean. Sam had chosen his friends over his family once-there would be no other opportunity for that to happen again. But all he said was: "We'll take good care of him," and let himself out.

…

Sam was alone, sitting up in bed with his arms wrapped around his knees. His dad was still talking to the doctor in his office, and Dean had gone out to find him some clothes so they could get him out of here. Sam did not want to leave, He felt safe here, the sharp clean smell and the harshness of the empty pale blue walls cutting him off at least partially from his emotions, blocking the pain. But he would rather die than say as much to his father.

Suddenly he glimpsed a face at the window outside his room-a face he recognised, a face that caused pain to break through him like a wave. It was Alison, Mike's mother. She met his eyes, hesitated, and then opened the door, stepping into his room. Sam lifted his head to stare at her-she looked as if she had aged ten years since he had last seen her: she looked shattered.

"I was told you survived," she said, her voice cracked and hoarse. "I wanted to see for myself."

And Sam sensed the driving agony inside her and he knew that it was his fault, and that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that he could ever do to make it any better. "I…I'm sorry," he mumbled ineffectually. "I…I tried…to save him…"

"You _tried_," she repeated harshly.

"I failed," he whispered. "He…he wanted me to tell you…to tell you…"

She tilted her head. "What?" she demanded coldly. "What?"

"That he loved you," Sam finished, his voice almost inaudible. "He wanted me to tell you that."

She stared at him for a long moment in silence, and he felt her pain, knew that nothing could possibly be as terrible, as destroying, as all-consuming, as a mother's grief for her lost child. He felt it like it was his own. "Then tell me," she said at last, breathing hard, her voice as sharp and as fragile as a trembling pane of glass. "Tell me, Sam Winchester-why should you live when _my__son_ had to die? Tell me that!"

He could only shake his head, his soul shattered into a thousand pieces inside him, irreparable. She turned on her heel and stalked out in silence-he saw her shoulders convulse in a helpless sob before she reached the door, and then she was gone, leaving him alone once more with his torment.

Because she was right. Why _should_ he live when Mike and Adrian and Tom could not?

He had betrayed his family. He had deceived them, acted selfishly and stupidly, and he had managed to get Mike and the others killed. Their deaths were on his conscience and his soul-they had died because he, a hunter, had failed to protect them or take any kind of precautions. He _could_ have. He knew what was out there. And yet he had failed. A poor excuse for a friend, a hunter-a son. And now as good as a murderer. Alison was right-her grief too was on him, and always would be.

He did not even deserve any solace.

His dad had been right all along. He was selfish, he was weak, he was a failure and a miserable substitute for a younger son. No wonder he wanted him to be more like Dean-it probably wouldn't matter what he _was_ like, so long as he wasn't Sam.

"I'm sorry," Sam whispered aloud to the empty room. "I'm sorry, Mike. I am so, so sorry. I would've saved you if I could have."

What right do you even have to be alive, when they're dead because of you? The mocking accusation bounced off the walls of his skull like a bullet and he clenched his eyes tight shut to keep back the tears.

"I will not let this happen again," Sam vowed desperately. "I will make up for this. I swear, I'll _atone_ for this. I won't let it be in vain."

You can't atone when you're this weak, Winchester. Small steps…

Sam gritted his teeth and uncurled himself from his foetal huddle. His chest immediately spiked with pain and he hissed sharply but persevered. He lowered his legs slowly onto the floor and took a couple of deep breaths, his lungs pounding at the exertion. With one hand he gripped the cold steel railing of the hospital bed, and leaning heavily on it managed to lever himself to his feet. His head pulsed with agony and nausea ripped through his stomach-his sight blurred alarmingly and he saw the world tilting sideways, and clutched at the wall to steady himself. Finally, gasping and sweating and fighting the pain with all his strength, he stood firm.

Small steps.

He focused on a chair across the room and took a step forwards. The scene swayed wildly before him and he stumbled, crumpling awkwardly to the floor. Pain split across his chest and he bared his teeth in a silent howl, curling into as small a ball as possible, biting his lip so hard he tasted blood. At that moment the door banged open and Sam heard Dean's voice exclaiming. "Sammy? What the hell are you-" And then he was beside him, gently levering his little brother up from the floor, supporting him as he swayed, easing him back down onto the bed. "You shouldn't be messing around now, Sammy, don't wanna break your stitches or something. You okay?"

Sam blinked up at him through his shaggy bangs, struggling to focus on his face, the breath sawing in his chest. Dean's concerned green eyes peered back at him, questioning.

"C'mon Sammy, talk to me. You gotta take it easy right now."

Sam gasped for air. "No," he croaked. "No…don't wanna…mess up…again…be strong…"

"Sam-"

And John's voice echoed through the room, startling both the brothers. Dean's head jerked up but Sam just hunched his shoulders as if in preparation for a blow. "Aren't you boys ready yet? We don't have all day, gotta get home and packed, I want to be on the road by midday."

**Please leave me a comment and let me know what you think!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Yes…it's been a while…I'm sorry! Don't really have any excuse other than the usual one that I've been insanely busy…hope you had a good Christmas!**

**Please bear in mind that John is a hard and tormented character, not a bad guy but one who can't easily show his feelings and who clashes with Sam because of their very different ideals and surprisingly similar personalities. He's angry right now in this story, very angry, but he will get less angry, and then he'll start realising what he's done to Sam. Just getting that out there.**

Chapter 6:

John had promised that they could stay in this town until the end of Sam's semester at least, but Sam did not complain about their hasty departure now. He huddled into the back of the Impala as John drove them in grim silence back to the motel to pick up their things: he only spoke when they finally arrived, his voice hoarse and unsteady.

"Dad…can't we stay till the funeral?"

John turned to him, swift as a striking snake. "_No_," he snapped, and Sam immediately shut up.

Dean slid out of the passenger seat and came round the car to help Sam, only to find his little brother already standing, leaning heavily against the door, his face stark white.

"Maybe you should stay here," Dean suggested worriedly. "I can get your stuff…"

Sam just looked up at him and mutely shook his head.

No more than ten minutes later Sam had his things packed and safely stowed in the trunk of the Impala, and was standing outside in the cold air, trying to breathe deeply enough to quell the spinning in his head. His chest felt tight and ached with every breath, but he wasn't about to say anything. He could just get over this-he deserved no relief.

At that moment John came striding out of the motel, backpack slung over one shoulder. Without looking at Sam he dumped it in the trunk, but then had to move past his son to get into the driver's seat. As he did so Sam suddenly spoke:

"Dad-I didn't mean-to…to betray you-I know it was stupid-I…I'm sorry-"

John turned to him at last, his face etched with a deep contempt that cut Sam to the quick. "You're sorry," he hissed scornfully. "God, Sam, you make me sick. You're _sorry_. Sorry that your friends are dead because of you? Thanks to your selfishness? And of course you meant to betray your family. We don't mean anything to you, do we, Dean and me? You're too far above us with your studying and your friends, you've got your own life to lead, huh, Sam? It's _pathetic_. Well I guess this has opened your eyes. There's no-one you can blame for your screwup this time, Sam. So deal with it and don't waste your breath whining." With that he swung into the car and started the engine, yelling for Dean to get a move on.

Sam stood like one frozen, his face empty of any colour, his eyes filled with a crushing and horrific hurt. Slowly his hands clenched into fists, so tightly he felt the skin of his palms tremble and break, but he did not relax them. Everything his father said was true-everything. He was selfish, he was worthless, he was stupid and the hatred in John's voice was no more than he deserved.

"Get in the _car_, Sam," his dad's voice ordered in exasperation. Sam did so without a word, as quietly as possible, making no sound when the healing wound in his chest flared with pain. What did it matter?

…

Dean did not notice that anything was wrong until they reached their destination, a rundown motel across the state boundary, late that night. Sam appeared to have been asleep for the entire journey, and if Dean had not especially liked his deathly silence and stillness, he comforted himself that it was probably the best thing for Sam right now. But when they pulled into the motel parking lot Sam immediately opened his eyes, and Dean saw them shining with pain in the rear-view mirror. He turned, suddenly concerned.

"Hey, Sammy, you okay?"

John's hands tightened on the steering wheel. Sam just nodded.

The Winchesters went up to get a room together: the plump, florid woman behind the reception desk looked at them with suspicion from the framework of stained walls and chipped plaster around her. "Just the one night, is it?" she drawled. John nodded.

"We're just passing through."

She rummaged languidly under the desk and came up with a key on a grubby piece of string. "Room nine, third on your left," she told them, then suddenly frowned, looking at Sam. "Hey, is your kid okay there?"

John glanced at Sam, too: the boy was swaying slightly on his feet and his face was grey with strain. One arm was pressed just a little too close to his side. But sensing their eyes on him he made an obvious effort to pull himself together and nodded to show that he was all right. John shrugged.

"He's fine."

…

Sam sat quietly on the edge of the camp bed they had pulled out on the floor for him, listening to the familiar sounds of Dean singing 'Eye of the Tiger' loudly and tunelessly in the shower. John had taken the car out in search of a nearby diner but Sam expected to be asleep by the time he got back. He had never felt so drained-his body seemed to throb all over with pain and his hands and feet felt numb with exhaustion.

Dean came out of the bathroom at that moment, stopping short to see Sam in his motionless, fixed position. "Uh-Sam, how about I take a look at that bite mark now?" he suggested. Sam shook his head.

"Doesn't it hurt?"

Again he shook his head.

"Are you feeling bad?"

The same gesture again.

"Seriously Sam, I need to check it's not getting infected…"

Sam just stood up, taking his backpack with him, and moved over to the bathroom, closing the door tightly behind him. After a couple of minutes Dean heard the water begin and shrugged, brow furrowed. He wasn't convinced that Sam was in any way all right, but even he wouldn't be stupid enough to risk his life over this. If he needed help Dean was pretty sure that he would ask for it.

Sam stood under the hot water staring upwards past the shower hose at the mildewed ceiling, letting the streams of liquid run over his face, his hair, mingling with the silent tears pouring down his cheeks. The heat stung the bite across his chest and made it harder than ever to breathe, but he did not care. The dried blood that had leaked through the bandage over the course of the day was freed from his skin and washed away down the plughole in a brown river and Sam stared at it, not even having the energy to alarmed by the fact that he had apparently lost so much. He thought he probably shouldn't take too long, and far before he was ready or felt purged by the hot water he turned off the shower and stepped out, drying himself awkwardly and carefully with a fragment of grey towel. Then he cursed-it was quickly becoming stained with blood too and there was no way Dean and his dad wouldn't notice. He stuffed it into his backpack, resolving to hide it later, and pulled on his sleep pants before winding the old, stained bandage back around his torso. It hurt and he clenched his teeth, but did not make a sound. Then he pulled on an old T-shirt over that, hiding the injury completely, and tensing up as if about to walk into battle stepped through the door back into the motel room.

Dad was back, bringing with him a greasy paper bag of burgers; Dean was already enjoying what looked like his second. Sam took one look at it and felt his stomach roil violently-it smelt, to him, like blood. He turned away and went over to his camp bed, pulling the blankets up around him.

"Don't ya want anything to eat?" Dean said with his mouth full. Sam shook his head and curled over with his back to his family, the wound in his chest pulsing with a deep pain, his head beginning to spike with the remnants of his concussion too, but it was the searing agony in his heart, the grief and self-loathing and guilt, that made him wish for death right then, and he closed his eyes tight to prevent any more tears from leaking out. All he wanted was to sleep, slip away into total oblivion, and not have to hurt any more.

Dean stared over at him in concern. Sam hadn't eaten much at all that day-when they'd stopped for lunch he had only taken a couple of bites of his sandwich before putting it aside, and Dean had not pressed him because it was clear from the sudden sweaty pallor of his little brother's face that all he would achieve would be to make him throw up. But he had to eat if he was ever going to get his strength back…

John, perceiving the direction of his gaze, shook his head. "Let him sleep, Dean. He needs rest." There was a strange tenderness in his tone, too low for Sam to be able to hear it and barely perceptible, but to Dean, so alert to the every inflection of his father's voice, clearly there. He looked up, surprised, but John's eyes were fixed back on his food.

And Dean, not convinced about Sam's health but not yet worried enough to push it, conceded.

_Mike was lying bleeding his lifeblood out into the mud, his chest shredded and torn open. His hand clasped Sam's so tightly the young hunter could feel the bones grating together and the terror in his eyes cut him to the quick._

_"Sam-please don't leave me here," he breathed, blood bubbling up at his lips. "I don't wanna die, Sam… don't make me go alone…"_

_But there was nothing Sam could do, no way to save him, and suddenly it was not Mike lying there but Alison, his mother, and somehow she was Mary Winchester too, dying before Sam's eyes._

_"Why should you be alive, and me dead?' the broken woman breathed, in one hybrid voice. "Why should you have survived?"_

_"Mom," Sam whispered. "Mom, no…"_

_"Fifteen years ago I died for you," Mary hissed. "Things don't change, do they, Sam…"_

_And Sam looked up into the flaming red eyes of the black dog just in time to see it spring for him, send him flying across the glade, its weight crushing him down so that he could not breathe, or scream, his chest was in agony-_

"Sam!"

He jolted awake-Dean was hovering above him, gripping his shoulders. Sam fought for breath, every mouthful making a strange sawing noise in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak his older brother's name but somehow no sound came out.

"Sam, jeez, you okay? You were thrashing around like crazy…"

Sam nodded, closing his eyes and fighting to calm himself. Mike's destroyed face leapt out behind his eyelids like a physical blow and he gasped.

"Are you feeling okay, Sammy? Can I check your bandages?" Dean's hands were already lifting his shirt to inspect the damage but Sam jerked away, shaking his head. Dean backed up, hands held up defensively. "Okay, okay, just trying to help…"

Sam did not sleep again that night, too afraid of the nightmares that lay in wait whenever he closed his eyes. He spent the remaining hours of darkness huddled on his camp bed, wide, fevered eyes staring blindly into the darkness, every second a struggle against the pain shooting through every part of his body. As soon as the sun came up he grabbed his bag and vanished into the bathroom to dress before Dean or his dad could figure out that anything was up, and when John saw him emerge clothed and ready, if pale and with deep black shadows under his eyes, he felt a reluctant pang of satisfaction. Sam _was_ pulling himself together-he had been right after all to be so hard on him. To himself he admitted that he had been afraid, afraid that Sam was not as recovered as he had seemed and that John might have hurt him, but clearly that was not the case.

"We're going to Minnesota," he announced. "Series of strange disappearances, a little too regular for my liking. Could be a hunt. If it is I'll get you into school there, Sam. Could take us a while."

Sam just nodded, not looking up. John hesitated, having expected an actual answer from his usually argumentative youngest son, and slightly disoriented that he was receiving none. "Let's hit the road," he said at last. "We can pick up breakfast from that diner I found yesterday."

"Thank God," Dean said dramatically. "I'm _starving_."

Sam said nothing, only followed them out to the car in total silence. He felt like if he opened his mouth he would throw up, or scream, as if his throat was locked and barred by pain. He did not really care what happened to him-the prospect of yet another new school, making it his third that year, neither concerned nor excited him as once it would have. He felt empty and broken, beyond repair, and above all his whole heart hurt as if it had been yanked from his chest, bled dry and then replaced and forced somehow to carry on throbbing away within him, every beat an agony and a perversion, keeping him walking and breathing but dead inside.

The three Winchesters took seats in the diner together-Sam had wanted to stay in the car, but to do so he would have had to protest, and that would have meant talking, and he did not think he could do that right now. And so he huddled into his jacket beside Dean, breathing in the smoky greasy air, the wound in his chest stinging violently.

"What d'you want, Sammy?" Dean asked cheerfully, peering up at the blackboard above the counter advertising the menu. "Think I'm gonna get pancakes."

"You should eat something healthy," John reprimanded his older son. "But yeah. Those pancakes do look great. Same for you, Sam?"

Sam just shrugged and Dean got up to order at the counter, leaving his brother and father alone. John glanced nervously about, awkward, then back at Sam.

"I, uh, I told you you'll probably be going to a new school when we get there, right?" he said, knowing perfectly well that he had told Sam as much but having nothing else to say. Sam nodded almost imperceptibly. John leaned forwards.

"You've been pretty quiet. You feeling okay? Did Dean take a look at those stitches last night?"

Sam nodded again. John, at a loss for words, was grateful to see Dean returning, and fell to discussing the particulars of this potential hunt in Minnesota. Shortly afterwards a young waitress in a short black dress appeared at their table with three plates of pancakes, and set them down before the little family.

"Can I get you anything else?" she asked, fluttering her eyelashes at Dean. He grinned and started to reply, then glanced at his father and checked himself. John, clearly amused, shook his head.

"No thanks, that'll be all." He dug into his food, savouring the first mouthful. "Wow, those are good. Come on, Sam, eat, we don't have all day."

Sam stared at the food on his plate and slowly picked up a forkful. Syrup oozed between the prongs and he felt his stomach turn. He put the fork down again. Dean was watching him, eagle-eyed.

"You okay, Sammy?"

Sam nodded and tried again, actually getting the food into his mouth this time. It tasted like ashes. He tried to force himself to swallow but somehow his throat wouldn't work and his stomach spasmed-he slid out from behind the table and bolted for the bathroom, knowing he was about to throw up. He barely made it, and then crumpled to his knees on the bathroom floor, leaning his face on the cold tiles, his whole body soaked in sweat. He could barely breathe.

How could he go on with this life, when it was so empty and when there was such an immense darkness inside him? When he was responsible for so much death and pain? What was the point, the worth in anything? He should just end his own life now, and go where he belonged-he shouldn't even be alive…

Footsteps. Dean's voice calling his name. "Sam? Sammy, you in here? You doing okay, little bro?"

Sam took a deep breath and with some effort levered himself up from the floor, unlocking the cubicle door and stepping out to face his older brother. Dean looked at him in deep concern.

"Sam, you have to tell me if you're not okay! You just got out of hospital, are you in pain? Are you sick? You look kinda sick…" He laid the back of his hand against the teenager's sweaty forehead and blinked. "Yeah, you _are_ sick…"

Sam shook his head vigorously. He wasn't sick. He couldn't be sick now, and if he was it couldn't be allowed to matter, because he had cost this world enough. He didn't deserve to be here at all-he certainly didn't deserve his big brother's sympathy. He pushed past him, through the door and back into the diner where John was waiting for them. Dean, following, brushed past his father, who caught his arm:

"Leave him alone, Dean."

"Dad, he's sick, he has a fever…"

"He's fine," John said in a steely voice. "And if he wants to sulk let him. We don't have time for this." Seeing his older son's stricken face he relented a little. "Dean, if he was in pain he'd tell us. We need to get a move on and get this hunt underway, people are dying. Sam's just tired and I'm sure he'll be absolutely fine in a few hours. Seriously."

**Reviews are inspiration! Also, if I don't update beforehand, happy New Year to everyone! Have fun!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Well, it took slightly less time than the last one! Happy New Year everybody!**

**I also want to tell you again that I am absolutely overwhelmed by the amazing response for this story, thank you so much!**

Chapter 7:

"Class, we have a new student," Miss Wilkins announced to the sophomore English class, indicating the boy who stood silent, eyes downcast, beside her. "Sam Winchester."

The boy did not respond-neither did the class. She had not really expected them to. She sighed and pointed out a free seat in the front row to Sam, which he took silently, pulling out a couple of dog-eared books. She noticed to her surprise that they were the same ones her class had been studying this semester.

"Did you get those out of the library, Sam?" she asked. He nodded.

"You went and looked up the syllabus before coming?" Again he nodded. Slightly disconcerted by his silence, she hesitated before continuing: "Well, I'm impressed at your commitment." Again she paused, bewildered by the boy's intense lack of speech or response, the defensive hunch of his shoulders, the deep pleading pain in his eyes. Maybe he's shy, she thought. "So, class, open page 67…"

Sam opened _The Great Gatsby_ at the appropriate page and tried to concentrate on the words on the paper before him. He had read it a couple of years ago and remembered enjoying it-now it all seemed trite and useless. It was only yesterday that they had arrived, moving into an empty apartment in a pretty rough part of town, and John had called the high school here and enrolled Sam. Another town, another school, another life-and yet Sam no longer cared.

He had not spoken in all that time-every time he closed his eyes it was to relive the nightmarish events in the forest, to hear his friends' dead, accusing voices calling his name. The wound in his torso did not hurt so much any more: John had finally taken a look at it, pronounced it be to be healing and informed Sam that he would remove the stitches in another week. Likewise nothing remained of his concussion other than the occasional faint headache if he moved too fast, and the other physical injuries were slowly healing too. To be sure, Sam still felt sick at the thought of food, though Dean had forced him to get down some toast that morning-he had only gone and thrown most of it up afterwards but Dean didn't have to know that. And he was pretty sure he was still running a high temperature, and his breathing had not eased-if anything it was getting worse. Every deep intake of air hurt now. But Sam just didn't care, and every physical pain only helped, anyway, because the raw scar where his heart should have been just went on bleeding and bleeding.

Even now, staring blankly at the book open on the desk before him, all he saw was Alison's face, demanding why he was alive when Mike was dead.

The bell went to signal the end of class and Sam immediately shot to his feet, piling his things into his backpack and hurrying out. He did not want to be waylaid by anyone trying to talk to him or worse, actually befriend him. He could not afford to make friends again-he had made it clear that he only endangered those around him. And anyway, what could he possibly say? However, he was not quite quick enough-a short, chubby boy caught up with him, calling his name.

"Hey-you're Sam Winchester, aren't you?"

Sam nodded.

"Miss Wilkins asked me to show you around, keep an eye on you." He beamed. "I'm Nick."

Sam felt a rising panic at the very thought of being near somebody-he opened his mouth to try and protest but no words came out. His first survival instincts pulsed within and he began to back away; Nick frowned.

"Uh…you okay?"

Sam nodded, taking a deep breath. Don't run. Don't run. He's just a kid. Like you. Don't panic-

What had _happened_ to him?

Nick, disconcerted, gave him a nervous smile. "Uh…okay…well I've got Biology next with Mr Joyce, you?"

Sam glanced at his timetable-it was the same. He tired again to speak but somehow his throat would not let the words pass-he held up the timetable to Nick, showing him. Nick was looking more and more confused but clearly trying hard to shrug it off smiled. "Well let's go then, don't wanna be late for Joyce, he can be a real sonuvab*tch…"

Biology did not at first seem as if it would be particularly difficult. Nick introduced Sam, apparently determined to take care of this new boy whether he liked it nor not, and Mr Joyce simply nodded and gestured for him to sit down. But it was not to be that simple: after the class he called Sam back to his desk.

"I'd like you to tell me whether you've already covered what we're doing in class?"

Sam nodded. My Joyce looked a little nonplussed.

"All of it? Did you do this whole topic in your last school?"

Again Sam nodded. Mr Joyce pulled a paper copy of the syllabus from a drawer under his desk and showed it to him. "How about you tell me how much of this you've already done, then?"

Sam scanned the syllabus, his heart pounding. He was alone, on the spot, he felt vulnerable and hunted, as if the teacher was watching for him to make a mistake. Confused at his own fear he struggled to control it-_what's happened to me_? I can't trust anyone, can't even stand close to anyone…what's happened? Shakily he pointed out the areas of the course he had already studied, then looked up hopefully at the Biology teacher. Mr Joyce was looking at him very oddly.

"Are you all right, Sam?" he asked. Sam nodded, clenching his hands beneath the desk.

"You're allowed to talk you know, I won't bite," Mr Joyce added, a feeble tone of laughter entering his voice. Sam opened his mouth, determined to try, beginning to panic, but the words would not come out, his throat wasn't working, somehow his voice was gone. Mr Joyce's expression turned concerned, and he started to get up, and then Sam whipped round and literally ran out of the classroom, shoving through the crowded corridors, the taste of blood in his mouth, until he reached the nearest boy's bathroom, swung into a cubicle and locked the door before dropping onto the closed toilet lid and putting his head in his hands, trying to breathe. His chest felt as though it was pierced full of knives, jerking and twisting with every intake of air.

What the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he speak? To be sure, at the beginning he hadn't because he hadn't wanted to, hadn't trusted his voice or wanted to open his mouth. But now, somehow…almost mechanically his hand moved to his phone and pulled it out of his pocket, hovered above the speed-dial one that would mean hearing Dean's voice, that precious booster of strength.

_I can't. I don't deserve it. I have to prove I'm not so weak_…

He shoved the phone back into his pocket and concentrated on drawing enough air into his lungs to keep from passing out right there where he knelt on the bathroom floor.

…

It was a long walk across town to the apartment, and it was a cold day. Sam set out undaunted-he had gone much further in much worse conditions-that was what being a hunter was about. But today he had only been walking for a few minutes and was scarcely out of sight of the school when his chest started aching again-he felt as if it were compressing, closing off his lungs. He stopped, his breath coming far too shallowly, afraid.

Suck it up, Winchester. You can't stop here, anyway. It's not too far home.

He bit his lip and went on. His breathing was not getting any easier, though, and his legs seemed to be shaking under him. He realised that for whatever reason he actually wasn't getting enough oxygen to keep going, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had to make it home, that was all. He persevered, then quite suddenly doubled over in a violent fit of coughing, each gasp seeming to drag painfully up from the very depths of his body; he had to stumble aside; there was nowhere in sight so sit down so he leaned against the wall of a building, fighting to stop the coughing, to breathe. Again he tasted blood but this time it was no illusion-it was really there.

"Hey, hey, kid, you okay?" A man's unfamiliar voice: Sam looked up, still trying to breathe, his eyesight hazy and dotted black. He could not focus on his face. The gash in his side was stinging fiercely and he felt wetness against his shirt-maybe some of the stitches were broken. He was beginning to panic-_how was he going to get home now_? And then with a final convulsion of his body he slid down the wall to crumple on the pavement, shoulders heaving as he sucked in the air.

The man was bending beside him, face peering worriedly into Sam's. "You're not okay, are you…" His hand came out and Sam flinched dizzily away, but the man was only feeling his forehead, and grimaced as he felt its radiating heat. "You're running one hell of a fever. C'mon, where d'you live? I'll take you home."

Sam's head snapped up. He shook his head, mouthing the word _No_, but no sound came out. Leaning heavily against the wall he managed to get to his feet, the stranger rising with him, looking uneasy and concerned. Sam backed away, still shaking his head.

"Kid, I don't think you should be left alone right now…I only want to help…"

And Sam _knew_ it, knew that he only wanted to help, that he was just a nice guy who'd stopped to help a kid he saw collapsed on the street, but he could not trust him, could not handle this, the fear within him rising like some kind of beast and overcoming him. For the second time that day he turned and fled from help, running at a stumbling, uneven, painful pace but as fast as he could, until he could not longer see the stranger, when he crumpled again by a wall, crossing his arms over his chest to ease the pain as he fought again to breathe.

…

When he finally made it home it was to find Dean sitting with his feet on the chipped kitchen counter watching TV. He titled his head back, looking upside-down at Sam as he entered, grinning.

"So how was school?"

Sam shrugged. Dean suddenly frowned, jerking the right way up. "Hey, you're really pale, you okay?"

Sam nodded again, turning away and trying to head for the other room, but Dean was already on his feet, grabbing his little brother's arm and holding him still. "Stop a minute, let me look atcha…" He pulled Sam around, inspecting his grey face. Like the stranger had in the street, he felt his little brother's forehead. "What the hell, Sam you're burning up. Why the hell didn't you tell me you were sick?" Without waiting for an answer he was already pushing Sam onto a chair and fumbling in one of the still-unpacked duffel bags on the table for the first aid box. Sam just stared, numb and confused and too tired to really care what was going on-next moment Dean had turned back and was pulling his jacket off him. Sam wanted to protest that he was cold, but could not, and then Dean swore.

"Dammit, Sam…"

Sam looked too, down at his shirt, where a wide red flag was spreading where the black dog had clawed his chest. Huh, he thought in faint surprise. That explains a lot.

Dean was still cussing. "Why do you do this, Sam, you have to _tell_ me when you're sick or whatever, I mean I guess it's my fault isn't it, shoulda checked on you since you're barely out of hospital but I guess I _assumed_ that my little brother would be smart enough to let me know if he wasn't okay but I guess not, huh Sam?" He did not even notice that Sam wasn't speaking, dragging off his shirt and inspecting the slowly-healing gash mark. A couple of the stitches were broken but it wasn't bleeding as freely as he had feared-Sam must have been lucky. "And how the hell'd you manage to break it open anyway?" he demanded. "You know what I have to do now, right?"

Sam nodded. Dean pulled him up and dragged him into the bedroom, pushing him down on the side of one of the beds and handing him the packet of painkillers. Sam dry-swallowed two, hating himself now for worrying Dean like this, for making him fuss over him again, but knowing that he could not so much as speak to protest. Dean was already back with the first aid kit, threading the big surgeons' needle, and dropped beside his little brother on the bed.

"You ready?"

Sam nodded grimly, turning his face away. He felt the needle go in, sharp and intrusive and his head tipped back as he bared his teeth in a silent scream. "Hey, I'm sorry, nearly done," Dean begged. "You okay?" Sam nodded and Dean plunged the needle through his skin again. The fifteen-year-old rocked back against his brother, gasping for breath, and then suddenly he had dissolved into another racking fit of coughing, doubling over, clutching his bare chest and stomach, struggling just to breathe. Dean, amazed and concerned, grabbed his shoulders, opening his airway, and Sam fought him, panicking in the fight for oxygen. "Hey!" Dean snapped. "Take it easy. C'mon Sam, breathe with me, now. In…out…in…out…"

Slowly Sam's breathing eased, leaving him flushed and panting, shivering, leaning against his older brother for support. Dean, relieved, allowed him to rest there in the cradle of his arms; Sam's eyes were closed and he was sucking in deep gasps of air, the dried blood on his skin making him look like the survivor of some terrible disaster, and horribly vulnerable. Dean just sat there motionless, holding him, until after a while the teenager's breathing evened into the rhythm of sleep and he went still, succumbing to his exhaustion.

Dean just looked down at him with a deep, pressing sympathy. "You're kinda messed up right now, Sammy, huh," he murmured thoughtfully. He just did not know what he could do to help.

…

Sam insisted on going to school the next day, despite Dean's pleas, commands and manoeuvrings to make him stay home and rest-he just knew that he could not allow himself to lose focus or accept his weakness: the only thing he could do to assuage the biting pain in his heart was to keep going, keep fighting, exhaust and hurt himself as much as was necessary. After that he continued, and Dean stopped trying to make him stay behind or open up. But halfway through the morning, on Sam's fourth day at school, John's phone rang in the kitchen of their apartment where he and Dean were poring over a map planning out their next hunt, and when he picked it up it was to hear an unfamiliar voice speaking to him.

"Is this John Winchester?" a male voice asked. "Sam Winchester's father?"

John frowned. "Yes, that's me. Who is this?"

"I'm Mr Wright, your son's headmaster? I was wondering if you could come in, actually, and talk…"

John was surprised. "What, today? Is Sam all right?" Dean looked up at this, eyes narrowing.

"Well, he's not hurt," Mr Wright said. "But I really do need to speak with you face to face. Is three today a good time?"

John was nonplussed. "Uh…yes, three's fine. I'll see you then."

"Thanks very much," Mr Wright said. "Have a nice day." And he rang off, leaving John staring in confusion at the phone.

"Dad? What is it?" Dean asked. John looked up.

"I'm not sure…that was Sam's headmaster, wants me to come in later. Oh, Sam's fine," he added quickly, staving off Dean's question. "I don't know what it's about…"

Dean hesitated. "Uh…Dad, I don't think Sam _is_ fine."

John looked surprised. "No?"

Dean shook his head, warming to his theme. "No. Yesterday he came home from school and he'd broken his stitches, I had to redo it. And he started coughing…not normal coughing, it sounded really bad. I, uh…I think maybe he needed longer to recuperate after what happened…"

John sighed. "Dean, he'll be all right. He went in today, didn't he? He must've been feeling okay for that."

Dean shook his head. "Dad, you know what Sam's like. He's pushing himself like crazy for some reason but he's really not okay and to be honest he went through hell, remember what the doctor said…"

"What, about trauma?" John demanded. "Dean…"

"I'm serious, Dad!" Dean pleaded. "What if Sam's blaming himself? He's been acting really strangely since…"

"Dean, he shouldn't beat himself up over it but he should learn from his mistakes. To be honest it is partially his fault, and that's just the truth of it."

Dean looked incredulous. "Dad-it's not his fault! He couldn't have done anything about that black dog, no-one hunts one of those suckers on their own and he killed the thing and walked away! He tried to save his friends, it isn't his fault that he couldn't!"

"He lied to us and put himself in danger," John said with finality. "He needs to learn sometime." He looked back at the map. "I'm thinking it's this warehouse down East Street we need to check out, I'll handle that this afternoon…"

"Will that be before or after you meet Sam's teacher?" Dean asked. John ran a hand over his face. "Oh, God…look, I really don't have time for that today. I'm sure it's nothing serious."

"Then I'll go," Dean challenged tentatively. John shrugged. "As you wish, but you'll be wasting your time."

…

When Mr Wright opened the door of his office at five minutes past three that day he was surprised to see the tall, leather-jacket clad young man lounging against the wall outside where he had expected to find John Winchester. He blinked.

"Uh-can I help you?"

Dean turned. "Oh-yeah. I'm Dean Winchester-Sam's brother?"

"I made an appointment with your father…"

Dean shrugged. "He couldn't make it. So you've got me."

Mr Wright looked dubious but stood aside, ushering Dean into his office. It was scarily tidy, Dean noted at once, with a few trophies on the top of immaculate filing cabinets, and a couple of embellished school certificates on the wall behind the polished desk. There weren't even any loose paper on it. He hated people who were this neat-it unsettled him. He dropped down into the nearest chair and folded his arms.

"So, what exactly is this about?"

Mr Wright sat down across the desk. "It's about Sam."

"I, uh, worked that out, thanks."

The head teacher glared, wishing fervently that he could be dealing with a responsible adult rather than this smart-mouthed kid. "Your brother is doing well…it's only his first week but he isn't having any problems catching up and several of his teachers find his work shows great promise. But…he seems to be having other kinds of problems."

"Like what?" Dean demanded. This man was really starting to annoy him.

Mr Wright looked vaguely uncomfortable. "Maybe he isn't like this at home. But Sam's teachers and his classmates have pointed out to me that _he doesn't speak_. Ever. He listens, we're sure of that, and he reacts, but he doesn't speak-there was an incident when he actually ran away from his Biology teacher rather than talk to him. Is there…something we should know? Does he have some kind of disability?"

Dean sat there as if turned to stone. He was running back over the past few days in his mind, replaying them with a horrible sinking realisation-he couldn't remember hearing Sam's voice since the day they had left the hospital, five days ago now. Was it possible that the kid hadn't spoken since then, and neither he nor John had noticed? Maybe, he thought. They had been so caught up researching this hunt-there had been nine disappearances in this town over the past two months, as regularly as if it were some kind of ritual, and Sam had gone to school, done his homework, been a little quiet and pale…but Dean had thought it must be his injuries…

Guilt swamped him. How could he not have noticed?

"Uh…you know, I'll talk to Sam," he said, fighting to keep his inner turmoil from his voice. "There's no, uh, disability or anything…I'm sure this is just a phase or, uh, something…"

Mr Wright did not look convinced. "If you say so…but it is important, Dean. Sam seems to need some real help. Has this ever happened before?"

"No…normally the kid never shuts up…" _How did I not notice? Has he really not spoken in five freaking days?_

"Did something happen to him? It's a fairly common reaction to some kinds of trauma, you see…"

Oh, Dad, you were so wrong about Sam…

"You know, I can handle this," Dean said, standing up. "Thanks for letting me know. Uh-school's nearly over, right? I'll just stick around and take Sam home, then."

"Very well." Mr Wright stood up as well. "Thanks for coming to see me. Make sure you do something for your brother, though. Dean-" Dean, turned hand on the doorknob. "He's a good kid. He doesn't deserve this kind of thing."

"What kind of thing would that be?" Dean flung back, suddenly on the defensive. But the headteacher was not daunted. "This kind of psychological breakdown, if that's what it is," was all he said. "It was nice meeting you, Mr Winchester."

**Please review and let me know what you think, and again have a great 2012!**


	8. Chapter 8

**I am so, so sorry about the long long wait…I've been in exam time at school and I've quite literally thought of nothing else for about a month. If it helps, writing this story is not the only thing I've neglected! No, it doesn't help much…I haven't had time to read this one over very closely so there may be typos or other mistakes, but I wanted to get it out there anyway, so again I'm sorry and thanks for sticking with me!**

Chapter 8:

When Sam stepped out of the school building that afternoon the first thing he saw was the Impala parked sleek and shining along the kerb. The few kids who had come out before him were all eying it enviously and curiously, not quite daring to approach and take a closer look, on account of the tall, handsome youth in the leather jacket who was lounging against it, eyes fixed on the school. Sam checked his walk, trying to hoist a normal expression onto his face. Unease and gratitude warred within him-gratitude because he was exhausted, and his chest hurt, and he was dizzy and cold and felt so wobbly and sick he wasn't sure he could make it home alone; and unease because if Dean was here it meant something was wrong.

Dean's sharp green gaze flashed to him and he gave a quick, lazy wave. Sam turned towards him, quickening his pace, and Dean straightened up as his little brother approached.

"How was school?" he said in that tone that _sounded_ light and cheerful but concealed a deeper anger or emotion beneath, that Sam heard whenever Dean wanted to make it obvious he was _really_ displeased about something. His sense of uncertainty deepened and he shrugged. Dean's mouth tightened.

"How about you actually _answer_ me, Sammy?"

Sam just stared at him, trapped. He lowered his head, letting his unruly hair flop down to shield his face, but Dean was having none of it and forced his chin up, compelling him to look him in the eyes.

"Sam?" And quite suddenly Sam realised that there was no anger in his brother's face-only fear. Dean was worried about him, concerned for him, not angry, and as Sam registered this a deep wave of guilt washed over him. He shook his head wordlessly, hopelessly. Dean let go of him with startling alacrity and turned away. "Get in the car," he said tautly, and Sam obeyed in silence. Dean followed, and as they pulled away from the school Sam noticed him biting his lip so hard the skin had turned white, brow furrowed as if in deep thought. Finally he glanced back at his little brother, hunched pale and guilty in the passenger seat beside him.

"I saw your head teacher today," he stated calmly. "He likes himself, huh?" He did not wait for a reply. "He told me you, uh, haven't opened your mouth to say so much as _can I have your number_ since you've set foot in the school, Sam. You wanna tell me what that's about?" His voice had risen in volume and expression, and Sam shrank unconsciously away, so exhausted all he wanted to do was close his eyes and go to sleep, and maybe never wake up, and not have to deal with this kind of pain. But he couldn't do that to Dean. He made no reply.

"Sam?"

Sam looked up then, gazing into his big brother's eyes with a kind of mute, desperate appeal. Something changed in Dean's then, and he looked away with a strange sort of shame, and said not another word until they reached home, where he cut the engine and turned fully in his seat to look at Sam.

"What's wrong with you, Sammy?" he said in a much softer voice than usual. "What's with this not talking? Are you trying to make a point or something?"

Sam shook his head. He could not explain, not with his eyes or even on paper, the taste of blood and death in his mouth, the lump that blocked his throat and made it impossible to speak, to breathe, the deep closed-down, locked-away agony that seemed to have shattered something so vital within him it had broken his voice, and maybe his soul as well. He could not explain the way his father had looked at him with such contempt and anger that everything that meant anything to him had just turned and fled deep inside him, and huddled there in abject terror, refusing to emerge back into the harsh light of day-how somehow if his own father would not hear what he had to say nobody could. He did not understand it himself, and he could never have explained, not even to Dean: he only knew that he could not speak, and it was not for lack of trying. He was just voiceless, crippled, and he did not understand why.

"_Can_ you speak?" Dean pressed. "_Can't_ you, or _won't_ you?"

Sam shook his head again, and Dean made an exasperated noise. 'Write it down, dammit," he growled. Sam fumbled to pull a sheet of paper from his bag, an uncomfortable heat stinging behind his eyes. Carefully at the top of the page he printed: _I can't. I'm sorry, _and handed it to his older brother. Dean scanned it and frowned.

"Why can't you?"

"I don't know," Sam mouthed helplessly. "I don't know."

"Are you sick? Did you damage your voice or something?"

Sam shook his head. He thought that he actually might be sick, to be honest, but it wasn't connected to this, and it did not matter anyway.

"I'll tell Dad," Dean said uncertainly. "He'll know what to do…" but Sam was already shaking his head desperately, unable to conceive of the shame and pain involved in telling his father about this new failure, this new weakness. Dean sighed. "Sam, we can't just do nothing…"

Sam grabbed the paper again. _Please_, he scribbled. _Not yet. It'll get better. Please, Dean_. _Just a couple more days_?

Dean looked dubious, but something in his little brother's wide, pleading eyes jarred a chord deep within him and in that moment he could not bear to risk causing the kid any more pain. Not now. He nodded reluctantly.

"Fine. But only a couple of days."

…

As it happened, two days later the Winchesters found themselves across the city, facing a tall grey warehouse, the darkness deep and looming in the corners. John had managed to solve the problem of the disappearances that had been happening over the past few weeks: he had traced a powerful witch from Washington through three other states to here, a witch who lured in unwary passers-by into her latest hideout. What exactly she did with them he had not been able to ascertain, but none of her victims had ever been seen again.

It was actually Sam who had located her, noticing that all the nine apparently random kidnap victims had all vanished along this same stretch of road, and yesterday he had been here with Dean, spying out the area. Now this was it, and he stood just behind his older brother, hand clenched around his gun, heart thumping from the tension. Something was about to happen-he could feel it, like a premonition of disaster, something big.

"Now you boys remember to be fast, you understand?" John said, never taking his eyes off the door. "The important thing is to find the prisoners."

"If there are any left," Dean muttered. John shot him a quelling glance. "Understood?"

"Yessir," Dean replied.

"Sam?"

Sam nodded. John turned away, accepting this. "Make sure you don't screw up this time," he added as he stepped forwards. "No daydreaming or sloppiness. Okay?"

"Yessir," Sam mouthed, anger and hurt rising in his heart, but John had not been waiting for a reply. He beckoned to Dean and inserted his pick into the lock of the door, twisting it until it clicked and the door swung open with a long, drawn-out creak that sent shivers down Sam's spine. His father gestured for them to follow and silently, like thieves, they slipped inside the warehouse.

There were two passages leading away from the main entrance, each equally dark and forbidding. John signalled for Sam and Dean to take the left-hand one while he chose the right-hand side. Dean led the way, flicking on his flashlight, and Sam followed close behind, his entire body tense with fear and anticipation and a strange ringing fervour he could not understand.

"Stick close, okay?" Dean hissed back. "And if you see anything then for God's sake let me know any way you can." He was not happy about this-so maybe Sam had the full use of his limbs and wasn't disabled in any way that would prevent him from fighting, but he was still broken in that deep inexplicable way and it just made Dean's protective instincts rocket sky-high. He wanted his little brother far away from here, as far as possible, where he knew he would be safe.

But that wasn't an option.

The next best thing was just to make sure he did not let Sam out of his sight. That way, Dean vowed, nothing can happen to him. I won't let it.

They crept through almost total darkness, the frail light of Dean's flashlight illuminating nothing but the empty corridor ahead. It was unnerving: deprived almost completely of their vision, the brothers found their other senses tense and jangling, on edge. Sam could even hear his own heartbeat, pounding like a drum. Then, suddenly, the passage came to an abrupt end at a small metal door. Dean bent to the ground, frowning, then glanced up at Sam.

"Could be the right place. Look-" He indicated the spots of dark liquid on the floor. Sam tightened his mouth. Blood. That meant somebody was hurt. He jerked his head at the door questioningly and Dean nodded, grim-faced. "Yeah. Stand back…" he had picked the lock in moments and pushed the door open: this one did not creak, but slid as smoothly as through water aside to reveal the dimly-lit chamber beyond. Dean shone his flashlight ahead, the thin beam probing the darkness-glinting off iron bars, off faces.

"_Yes_."

They hurried forwards towards the prisoners in the metal cage at the back of the room, seven or eight of them, all white-faced and looking traumatised. One man stretched an arm through the bars towards them.

"Who are you?" he demanded hoarsely. "How did you find us? You're not…"

"We're not with her," Dean replied swiftly. "We've come to help. Wait-" He hesitated, counting quickly. "Aren't there any more of you?"

The man looked stricken. "There were." He stopped, took a breath. "She…she took them." His eyes gleamed with an inexplicable intense horror, the horror of the survivor, of long lonely days and nights of existing, not knowing whether he would live or die, alone in the darkness and exposed to forces that should not be, should not have any place in the rational, scientific modern world. It was an expression Sam recognised-he had seen it in Mike's eyes, just before he died. The realisation staggered him and he felt his sight caving into the alternate reality of memory, of flashback. Darkness lapped at the edges of his vision and a pulsing panic welled up inside. Suddenly Dean's voice dragged him back from the abyss-

"Sam, hold the flashlight."

He shouldered out of the nightmare and almost snatched the flashlight from Dean, who blinked, surprised.

"Easy there." He was pulling his pick from his pocket and inserting it into the lock of the cage door, cursing softly as he fiddled with the mechanism. The other prisoners were pressed forwards, whispering, sobbing: "Oh God bless you…be careful…who are you…they're just kids…"

The pick was not working, it wouldn't even fit fully into the lock. Dean straightened up, frowning. "I'm gonna have to kick it down," he muttered, then raised his voice. "Okay, if you could all just stand back a little…" He took a run up, then rammed the hinges of the cage with his shoulder. The whole thing shuddered and someone inside it cried out in shock. "I said stand back!" Dean snapped, taking a few steps back to try again. At that exact moment Sam heard the footsteps behind him and turned, the light swinging wildly to come to rest on the hooded, scar-faced figure gliding into the room behind them, slowly raising a bony, withered hand.

"_Dean_!" Sam tried to yell, but his voice did not work-his brother turned too late, responding to the change in light, and suddenly as if struck by an invisible force was lifted and flung across the room. He struck the wall head first and slid down it, lying motionless. Horrified Sam looked back at the figure, who was now advancing on him. It was the witch, it had to be the witch…He looked back, suddenly, to the cage. He could not let them down. He could not fail again…

"Get…get back," he mouthed, voiceless. The witch gave a hoarse, gurgling laugh but did not halt. Sam backed up, further and further, until his back was to the cage. His hand came up with his gun, pointed directly at it, but it would be useless, he knew it would-her hand swept by again and this time it was him who was thrown aside, the gun going off in a futile explosion as it was torn from his grasp. He fell beside Dean, so hard he was dazed, and as he struggled to his hands and knees he felt a drop of blood trickle down the side of his face. He struggled to focus on his brother's face, reached out with fumbling fingers to feel for a pulse. It was steady, regular. Dean was only unconscious.

The witch was approaching the cage now and the prisoners were pressing backwards away from her. Sam could hear cries of fear, anger, great racking sobs. They were going to die. At the front of the crowd he could see the man who had spoken to Dean, arms spread wide to shield those behind him, that intense alien panic blazing in his eyes. Like it had in Mike's.

Sam was on his feet. He barely knew how. Stumbling forwards. He was not aware of his dad entering the room behind him, nor of Dean weakly raising his head by the wall. He saw only the prisoners behind the bars, and the witch's hand raised to strike. He was running, staggering, bleeding. A great cry building within him, a yell of anger and despair that seemed to have been growing for days, for weeks, maybe all his life, thrashed like a living entity, possessing him utterly, and as the witch's strike coalesced into a glimmering white nimbus of death he flung himself forwards between her and the cage, his desperate scream echoing all about the chamber. Taken by surprise, the witch hesitated-just a fraction-the nimbus dimmed slightly-then struck. Sam felt it burn deep into his whole body, like being hit by an immense electric charge, and his scream froze, every nerve alive with agony, limbs convulsing. He fell hard to the stone, screaming, not his but that of the prisoners, ringing in his ears. He barely saw his father behind the witch blast her with the flame gun, barely saw her sway and crumble, but he heard her deep strangled howl of pain. Then darkness, and Sam smiled as he began to fade.

Suddenly his father was crouched in front of him, face twisted with panic. "Sam! Hey, Sammy, can you hear me? Are you okay? Sam!"

"They…alive?" Sam found the strength to whisper. John blinked.

"You mean the prisoners? Yeah, of course, but-"

Sam was no longer listening. He had saved them, like he should have saved Mike. He had not failed again. Suddenly at peace, he allowed himself to drift into darkness.

John struggled to calm himself, realising that his sons' survival depended on him right now. He could see Dean getting unsteadily to his feet in the corner, eyes fixed on his little brother's motionless form before John, and he made himself reach out to feel for Sam's pulse at his throat. He found it, weak and irregular but definitely there. Sam was alive. Now to free the prisoners.

Dean had already weakened the hinges and it took John onto one try to hammer down the cage door, allowing the trapped, traumatised prisoners to stumble free. He did not linger with them, though, instead returning to where Sam lay and where Dean now knelt, shaking his younger son gently.

"Sammy...come on, Sammy, you gotta wake up for me." There was no response from Sam, who lay completely still, barely breathing, his face white and bruised. "Sam!" He glanced around, then at Dean. "Dean-you okay?"

"Yeah," Dean said hoarsely. "Yeah, fine, we need to get Sammy to hospital!"

John assessed him critically, then nodded. His older son's pupils were the same sizes and though he was clearly in pain it did not look as if he had suffered a concussion. He could inspect him afterwards. "I know. Okay, Dean, I want you to go first and lead these people out of here. I'll come behind with Sammy."

"Let me take Sam," Dean argued, but John shook his head.

"You're hurt. I need to make sure he doesn't get jolted any more than necessary, don't yet know what's wrong with him." Dean still looked set to argue and John sighed. "_Please_, Dean? We don't have time for this…"

Dean scowled but got to his feet. "Be careful with him," he warned, then turned to the throngs of people. "Okay, I want you all to follow me and be quick about it…"

John looked back at Sam, gently sliding one arm under the teenager's shoulders and the other under his knees, lifting him into his arms. He seemed far too light, and hot as if with fever, and he did not respond to his father's touch, his head lolling back over John's shoulder. Praying silently and irrationally that some of the strength in himself could somehow miraculously pass through to his stricken younger son, John followed the line of dishevelled prisoners behind Dean out of the warehouse and into the clear cold night outside.

…..

"Well, Mr Jones, I'd say your son's been very lucky," Dr Milligan ain the waiting room of the Saint Joseph County hospital told them an hour later. "You said he got too close to an electricity generator, right?"

"Yeah," John said just a little uneasily. Not knowing exactly what the witch's strike had done to Sam, he had gone with what it had looked like, and he only hoped it would be enough.

"Then you should understand he's lucky to be alive," Dr Milligan said seriously. "There was no burning and so destruction of organs, in fact very little physical damage at all."

"So why's he still unconscious?" Dean demanded. Dr Milligan shook his head.

"It isn't fully clear. I'd say his body has gone into deep shock and has just shut itself down, maybe to heal. There is very little we can do here but I would assume that Sam-his name is Sam, isn't it?-will just wake up when he's ready to."

"And you don't know when that will be?" John asked.

"Judging by his physical condition it should be very soon. But I really can't say. However, there is…something else."

John cocked his head. "Something else?"

Dr Milligan looked a little uncomfortable. "I, uh, I'd be surprised if you hadn't noticed something. Sam has picked up a fairly serious form of pneumonia. His lungs are very badly inflamed. If he hadn't been brought in now after the accident it would have been getting extremely dangerous for him not to be hospitalised."

John just stood there speechless, astonished. Dean, with a rising anger, turned on his father.

"Sam has pneumonia? How the hell didn't we see this? I mean-" He was remembering Sam's exhaustion and weakness, his fever and those instances of racking coughing. He had not even thought it could be this.

"They told me this was a possibility," John said quietly. "I didn't think…"

Dr Milligan looked confused. "Who told you?"

John sighed. "It was only a couple of weeks ago…Sam was attacked and injured in the forest a couple of states over. His lungs were damaged and I was warned pneumonia could be an issue…I didn't listen." Guilt was rolling through him as he spoke. How could he have been so blind, so thoughtless? He had known. He had been told specifically that Sam's health would suffer, and he had just turned away and refused to listen, risked his son's life. He could barely believe that he could have been so callous.

Dr Milligan coughed politely. "To be completely honest, sir, that was extremely irresponsible of you. I'm putting Sam on a course of antibiotics and with a good rest we should be able to beat this, but if he hadn't come in now…" He shrugged. "Pneumonia is still serious, you know, if not treated. People tend to forget that nowadays."

"Yes," John said distantly. "Yes, you're right…God…" He fought to pull himself together. "I want to see my son," he said firmly.

"They're still getting him settled," Milligan explained. "In half an hour or so you should be able to see him. I have to get on now but I'll be back as soon as I know more." He gave them an apologetic smile and moved on, leaving John to crumple back into his plastic chair, head in his hands, horrified.

"I've been so stupid," he said blankly. Dean folded his arms.

"We both have. Remember when I went to see Sam's headmaster a couple days ago? He told me Sam was showing signs of a psychological breakdown. He hadn't spoken, Dad. For over a week he hadn't spoken." He shook his head. "He wanted to deal with it on his own, that's why I didn't tell you…but I heard him yell in that warehouse, I guess whatever was stopping him speaking has dealt with itself…but still, Dad, Sammy's really messed up, I mean it's only been days since…"

"I know." John muttered, cutting through his son's rambling. "I don't understand how we can have…" He dragged his hands slowly down his face, pressing his fingers into his skin. "I was too hard on him."

"Yeah," Dean said quietly. "You were. But you're not the only one at fault. I should've said something, or noticed how sick he was getting…"

John laid a hand on Dean's arm. "You did all you could, Dean. It isn't your fault."

Dean scowled. "We just better get the chance to make it up to him now. Make him understand it was a mistake…"

"And that he can't go throwing himself in the path of death like that," John added darkly. "Kid could've died…" And still could, he realised suddenly. The doctor did not know what was wrong with Sam; he might never wake up. His blood ran cold at the thought and he read in the pain in Dean's eyes that the same idea had occurred to him. They sat silently in the waiting room, both lost in their contemplation of the hurt, brave boy lying injured somewhere else in the hospital, never imagining how much he was needed by his father and brother, however difficult it was for them to admit it to him.

**Well there it is at last, hope it didn't disappoint!**


	9. Chapter 9

**Yes I have a new chapter done! I tried to get it done quickly to make up for the shocking delay before the previous one…let's hope this kind of efficiency become a habit, huh?**

Chapter 9:

_Mike was bleeding to death, slumped across Sam's shoulder. Sam had to get him home before it was too late, every instant sheered away at his friend's chances of survival…all was dark around him and he could not see, fumbling his way forwards blindly, desperately. Then suddenly the witch was standing before him and he heard her icy voice in his head- "_You_. You-you deserve to be dead! Look at what you have done, Sam Winchester!"_

_"It's not true," Sam returned angrily. "It's not _true_."_

_"Just look, look at all those who have died for you…"_

_"I saved your prisoners," Sam cried. "I saved them, didn't I?"_

_And then her jet of power came at him, striking him where he stood, burning him to ashes from the inside out_-

Sam jolted awake choking and screaming. There were strong hands holding him down and he clawed at them, struggling desperately but their whispering demon voices went on, coaxing him to be still, to take it easy. Panicked and lost Sam fought them, fought them until there was no more strength in his body, no more air in his lungs, and he dissolved into a painful coughing fit, alone in the darkness with these creatures who were trapping him, holding him, who were going to do God only knew what to him…

"Hey, Sam, Sammy, you need to calm down. Sam…"

Hands he knew coming down on his shoulders, soothing him, anchoring him. He twisted into them, clinging to his sole lifeline in this world of panic, of pain, and only then realised that he had never opened his eyes. He did so, the world blurry but slowly focusing, and then it was Dean sitting before him in a hospital room he had never seen before, clasping his shoulders in a slow gentle massage that opened his airway, allowed him to breathe.

"Breathe easy now, Sammy," he instructed softly. "Just breathe. Don't be scared."

"Dean?" Sam whispered, throat raw, chest tight and aching. "Dean, what…where…"

"Ah…" Dean's eyes flickered to the doctor and nurse standing beside him and even in his bewildered state Sam understood that he had been hurt in connection with some supernatural entity, and that it could not be discussed now. "You're in hospital, Sammy. You, uh…you were in an accident."

Sam cast his mind back. Yes-now he remembered. The witch, the prisoners in the warehouse. Had they beaten her? Were the prisoners safe? He tried to signal his questions to his brother with his eyes, but Dean did not understand his burning gaze and only smiled reassuringly. Sam felt frustration well up within.

One of the men by the bed stepped forward and at first Sam flinched back, then forced himself to relax. Dean shifted a few inches backwards, never taking his eyes off his little brother's face. "Hey, Sam," the man said. "I'm Dr Milligan, I'm the one who treated you."

"Uh…" Sam was not sure what to say, what the protocol was. "Thank you?"

Dr Milligan smiled. "You're welcome, but you don't need to thank me. I guess you've learned your lesson about high-voltage electricity generators now, huh?"

This story was totally new to Sam, but he managed to nod with only the faintest of hesitations.

"We'll take care he has," Dean added, to cover the silence. The doctor nodded. "But there is another matter to deal with…"

Sam was perplexed. "There is?" His voice sounded strange and unused, hoarse. He wondered why, then abruptly remembered. He had not spoken for days. And now…

"Yes. You see, I have diagnosed you as suffering from acute pneumonia, and I'd be quite interested to know how you managed to conceal your illness, which must have been fairly serious for a few days now, from your family?" He was testing them all, Sam realised suddenly. Asking him in front of Dean, and his dad, who he now saw waiting just behind the nurses, an expression of harassed relief and unease in his face. It was a test.

"I…I tried to hide it," he said uncertainly. "They were both, uh, really busy, and I thought I could deal with it. They tried to help me. I…I didn't let them. It's my fault." Dean stirred but said nothing-he must realise that any protest would only lessen their chances of being designated responsible guardians for Sam. Dr Milligan held the boy's gaze a few moments longer, then smiled and stood up.

"Very well," he said. "You should take a lesson away from that, as well, of course. I'm putting you on a course of antibiotics and I'll be keeping you in for at least a week for observation. You might just dodge a bullet here, but it'll be close. Another day or so and I would've had to intubate you. You understand?"

"Yessir," Sam replied quietly. "I do."

"Then I'll leave you to the mercies of your family. But they shouldn't stay long, you need your rest."

"I'll sleep here, then," Dean said immediately. "I'm not leaving Sammy here-"

"Dean," John remonstrated quietly. "We can discuss that later." Dr Milligan nodded and ushered the nurse out with him, leaving John and Dean alone with Sam. Finally Sam's protective mixture of composure and confusion dropped and he lowered his gaze, looking away.

"Did they make it out?" he demanded in a rush. "The prisoners?"

"Thanks to you," Dean told him. "But you can't go around pulling stunts like that, Sam. You could've died. Even Dad wouldn't have-" He paused, shook his head. "There's a difference between protecting strangers and throwing yourself in the path of a bullet for them!"

Sam shrugged. "M'sorry I scared you," he muttered. "I couldn't…couldn't watch them die. Not…not again."

"Well-" It was John who spoke. He sounded embarrassed and uncertain, but at least he did not look angry. "You were…very brave, Sam. But it was stupid, too. I don't want to see that again, you hear me? I-" He hesitated, seeing his son's face fall. "I don't want to…" He could not say it. But he thought, he hoped, that Sam understood. "And that's not all, he went on, to cover his awkwardness. "Why didn't you tell us you were sick?"

Sam shrugged. "Didn't…didn't think of it. I…I deserved it anyway." His voice was empty and listless. Dean swore.

"What the _hell_, Sam? You _deserved_ it? That is the biggest load of crap I've heard since-" He shook his head. "Is this about Mike and the others? Is it?" He saw his little brother's flinch at the sound of their names. "'Cause you are not responsible for what happened to them, Sammy! There was nothing you could have done, nothing anybody could've done! And you have to stop blaming yourself for it! You didn't deserve any of this and if you ever say that to me again I will kick your ass from here to Texas. You get me?"

Sam hesitated. It wasn't true. When Dean was less angry, when he calmed down and thought about it, he too would realise the truth. But he wasn't going to understand and he wasn't going to listen, not now. Sam nodded. "Okay," he whispered.

"And that too," Dean went on, undaunted. "You didn't speak for _nine freaking days_! What the hell was that all about?"

"I'd kinda like to hear that one too," John said quietly. Sam did not meet their eyes.

"I don't know," he said miserably. "It just didn't work. I don't know why. I…I'm sorry."

"Dammit, you don't have to be _sorry_!" Dean exploded, then raised his hands to his face and made a frustrated kind of growling sound. "You know what? It's done. You're staying here and you're gonna take good care of yourself. And I'm sticking close by too, like it or not, little bro. And then when we get you out you're gonna be okay, that's all. Right?"

"Sure," Sam said quietly. "Sure." But he was lying. He knew now what he had to do-he understood the only way to stop the pain, to make him feel once more that he deserved to be alive. The only way to do it was just what he had done in the warehouse. He had tried to sacrifice himself for the prisoners, and been ready to die to save them. That was the way forwards. Saving people, as many as he could, no matter what. That was what was important. And Dean wasn't going to understand that right now, nor was their Dad, but it made no difference. It was what Sam had to do, and he was prepared for the consequences. His own safety and his own life did not matter. What mattered was saving as many people as possible, to make up for failing Mike and Tom and Adrian. It was the only way, and he knew that it was the only thing that could give him the will to go on.

Two days later, when Sam opened his eyes to find Dean slumped in the chair next to his bed, flicking through a magazine, he had made his decision. Dean looked up, sensing his movement, and closed the magazine.

"Don't know why they bother with these things, hospitals," he commented. "Nowhere near enough porn."

"Why the hell would they put porn in a magazine they're going to circulate around the patients?"

Dean grinned. "It has curative properties. And anyway, what is the world coming to? Little kids like you shouldn't know what porn even means."

"Ha, ha," Sam said absently, and then his face turned serious. "Dean…I'm going to ask them to discharge me today."

Dean started. "Huh? No, you heard the doc. He wants you in here for a week at least."

"I don't _need_ to be," Sam said stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest. "I'll be fine. I'll keep taking the antibiotics."

"Sam, the doc's gonna say no, and Dad's gonna say no, and more importantly _I'm_ saying no, right now."

Sam scowled. "Dean…" His voice turned pleading. "I don't want to be here. It feels...weird. Plus the food's horrible. And…"

"And?" Dean demanded. Sam looked up miserably.

"And I have to be busy, Dean. I have to be doing stuff. Useful stuff. I need to be out there helping."

Dean blinked. "Why? Helping with what?"

"Hunting," Sam said. "I just do. I need to be doing something."

"Sam, you're sick. If you don't take care of yourself for once, you're gonna get seriously sick again. You had a fever of 102 last _night_ for God's sake."

"I'll take care," Sam insisted. "I'll take the meds and everything. But I need to get outa here, Dean!" His wide hazel eyes gazed up at Dean with a deep intense pleading, but Dean just shook his head.

"No way. There is no way I'm letting you out of here till you're okay again. Don't you understand how sick you were, Sammy?"

"I _understand_," Sam said through gritted teeth. "I'm not a little kid. But-"

"I'm saying no, Sam," Dean said with finality. "And don't try anything or I'll kick your ass however sick you are."

…..

That night, Dean was dozing in his chair when suddenly he heard Sam, sleeping beside him, begin to moan and whimper. Immediately he was fully awake, realising that his brother must be having a nightmare, and he stood up, leaning over the bed.

"No," Sam was mumbling, tossing his head on the pillow. The floppy chestnut bangs that fell across his pale sleeping face were dark with sweat. Dean reached out to touch his shoulder, intending to gently shake him awake, but Sam instantly jerked aside, as if struggling against some invisible assailant even in his sleep. "Sam." He shook him, at first softly then more violently. "Sammy c'mon, wake up!" Where's Dad? he wondered. They were taking it in turns to sit with Sam during the nights, but it must be nearly time for John's shift. "Sam!"

Sam's eyes snapped open. "Dean?" he gasped. "Dean-" His arms jerked out, flailing for purchase, and Dean grabbed his hands, pressing him back against the bed. "Hey, easy there," he said urgently. "Relax, Sammy, I'm here, you need to take it easy, okay?" Sam's breathing was harsh and laboured, every gasp coming with a frightening choking sound, and he was white as the sheets. "Dean?" he croaked. "Dean, I don't feel…so good…"

"Yeah, well, you don't look so good either," Dean muttered, sitting back on the edge of Sam's bed. "You want some water?" Sam nodded and Dean picked up the glass, holding it to his little brother's dry lips. Sam, afraid and disoriented by fever, did not even protest at the gesture, and that scared Dean more than anything else.

"You were having a nightmare," Dean said awkwardly. "You, uh, wanna tell me about it?"

Sam sagged back, closing his eyes. "I keep seeing them, Dean," he whispered. "Mike and the others. Dying. Because of me. Every time…"

Dean sighed. "Sam, for the last time they didn't die because of you! You did everything you could and more than most people would've, isn't that enough?"

"They won't leave me alone," Sam said hopelessly. "I thought…if I saved…somebody it'd stop. It'd be enough. But…" He was already fading into unconsciousness again, his crushing exhaustion weighing him down. "Not enough," he mumbled. "It's not enough."

….

Two days later Sam could already feel the inflammation in his lungs beginning to subside, and his fever had dropped. His nightmares, however, had only worsened and he knew that the longer he lay here doing nothing the more horrific they were going to get. Dean and his father were still adamant that he should stay until the doctor discharged him, but Sam had no intention of doing so. When his father walked through the door to his room that morning it was to find Sam sitting on the edge of the bed, fully dressed and waiting for him. John stopped, taken aback. Sam too was thrown: he had expected Dean, who had just gone down to the cafeteria to get a coffee.

"Sam-uh-I guess you're feeling better?"

"Yes," Sam said, looking straight up into his father's eyes. "I'm okay. Uh-where's Dean?"

"At the gas station filling up the car," John replied. Sam nodded. That might actually make this easier.

" Okay. Um, Dad? I…I think I'm okay enough to leave here now." He lifted his head, trying to seem as healthy and as adult as possible. John sighed heavily.

"Sam, you heard Dr Milligan. The last five or six times. He wants you to stay here at least another three days and I'm not disregarding a doctor's advice like I did last time."

Sam scowled. "I'm in here because of the _hunt_, not because of last time."

John came across the room and sat down beside his son on the edge of the bed. "Look, Sammy," he said with an effort. "I was angry, last time. I was angry and as much as anything I was angry because you'd…" He took a deep breath. "Because you'd _scared_ me so badly. I thought I'd lost you, Sam. Don't you know what that did to me? Maybe I reacted badly. No, you know what-I did. I reacted…very badly. I shouldn't have said to you what I said."

Sam had gone red. "Dad," he muttered. "You don't have to say this. It doesn't matter. I was stupid. Selfish. It wasn't…"

"You were," John acknowledged. "But I was too, more so. You aren't at fault. And I should never have taken you out of the hospital. I was advised not to. I knew you were sick. I knew you were…hurt. But I didn't listen, thought we could handle it. I should've known better, Sam, and I caused you a lot of pain. I'm sorry for that. And I'm not going to make that mistake again. Hunt or no hunt, you would've ended up hospitalised for pneumonia the way you were going, and you might have died." His head was lowered and he spoke quickly, embarrassed. He had not planned to say this. He did not know where the words were coming from. But seeing Sam, so vulnerable and so hurt, sitting there fiercely telling him he was ready to face the world again…it had wrenched open some deep painful well within him and suddenly he had not been able to stand the weight of all the unspoken words. "And I couldn't have taken that. I…I need you in here, being taken care of." He fell silent, waiting for Sam's reaction, almost afraid of it.

"Dad," Sam whispered. "Dad, I…it was my fault too. I wanted to leave then. You don't have to…feel bad. It's not your fault."

"Sam-"

"But this time I want to go. This time I'm okay. I'll keep taking the meds, I'll take it really really easy, but I can't stay here any longer. I just can't."

"Sam, you were very sick. Your fever only dropped yesterday. You can't mess about with this-"

Sam looked up at his father at last, his eyes wide and pleading, and John suddenly read in them something he had not expected. Something in Sam had changed irrevocably since the last time he had really looked at his son: outwardly he looked exactly the same, but in his eyes there was a deep ingrained grief of the kind that did not just fade away, a maturity born of pain. "Dad," the boy said softly. "Please."

John stood up so fast the bed creaked wildly. "I'm going to go and talk to the doctor," he muttered, and strode out as fast as he could, thrown inside by that new expression in his son's eyes. Sam was only fifteen. He shouldn't be carrying something like that. Oh, so maybe Dean had. John felt it now as he did every instant, that deep penetrating guilt that Dean had never been able to have a real childhood, that from the beginning he had been Sam's protector and John's ally, his partner, long before he was old enough to hold a weapon. But Sam…

Somehow they had always protected Sam. Sometimes it had infuriated John, and sometimes his rage had issued from Sam's independence and courage making it so difficult for them. But he had always been the child in their family, the vulnerable element, and suddenly…suddenly he knew pain, as they did. Maybe it was John's own fault, maybe not. But he did not even know if it was reversible. All he knew was that it was wrong.

**See, John just needs something to make him see the light sometimes… Please review and let me know what you think!**


	10. Chapter 10

**I've said it before and I'll say it again, I am overwhelmed by the response for this story. Thank you all so much!**

Chapter 10:

It was almost midnight but nobody in the Winchester's grungy little apartment was sleeping. John was tapping away at his laptop, brow furrowed with deep lines, Dean's attention divided between the computer screen which he was perusing over his father's shoulder and the gun he was cleaning almost without looking. Sam sat at the edge of the table, sifting quietly and determinedly through piles of printed pages.

"It's definitely a spirit but I can't seem to find any motive," John said at last. "Sam, you got anything on this Anderson guy?"

"There's no sign of a family grudge or anything," Sam replied without looking up from his work. "I've gone back to 1954 when the first killing happened but I can't see any cause for it…victims aren't related anyway."

"So how d'you know it was the same spirit?" John said with a heavy sigh. Sam looked up at last, his eyes shadowed dark and haunted with exhaustion. "Same style. That heart-shaped stab pattern on the victims' backs. And it says here…this man Jonah Wilkins was found inside a locked room, no weapon or signs of a struggle, no fingerprints or evidence, but bled dry through the wounds on his back. That's exactly the same as what happened to Anderson."

"You're sure this Wilkins didn't have some kind of other connection to the Anderson family?" Dean asked. There had been a mysterious killing two days before, conforming to the pattern Sam had described, to a member of an old town family, John Anderson . It definitely looked like the work of a spirit, but pinpointing the exact ghost was proving to be a little more difficult than expected.

"Not that I can find," Sam mumbled, bending his head back to his pages. "But I'll keep looking."

"Oh, I don't think so," Dean contradicted him, surging to his feet and swiping Sam's pages away from him. "You got school tomorrow and you need your sleep."

"Dean…" Sam lunged for his research notes but Dean whipped them away from him, his extra three inches giving him the edge.

"Your brother's right, Sam," John said unexpectedly. "First your pills, then get some sleep."

"I'm not tired," Sam said immediately. "I want to _help_. Somebody else could die if we don't solve this."

Dean, suddenly realising what was going through his little brother's mind, grabbed Sam by the back of his sweater and dragged him to his feet. "That's it. Come on, Sammy." He headed off into the other room and Sam, slightly confused, uncertainly followed. Barely had he entered than Dean slammed the door behind them and wheeled to face him.

"So that's what this is about, huh? And there was me thinking you were just taking a sudden mysterious interest in hunting. But no, it's all part of your stupid penance and making amends thing, is it?"

"No," Sam mumbled, not quite truthfully. "I just want to stop anyone else getting hurt."

"Yeah, well, you're not the only one on the job, Sammy! Plus you're no use to anyone dead on your feet, plus you're never going to recover if you don't take care of yourself, plus you're not God and you can't save everybody! It's just not _feasible_!"

"Doesn't mean I shouldn't _try_," Sam snapped, suddenly angry. "I don't get you, Dean. All my life you've been pushing me and pushing me to care about hunting and be just like you and Dad, and now when I suddenly have a reason to do it you want me to stop? What do you want from me? Isn't this what you've always _wanted_ me to be?"

"I don't want you to be anything except you," Dean returned. "And I want you to take care of yourself for once in your messed-up life! Why d'you think Dad and me care so much about you learning to hunt properly and to defend yourself?" Sam did not reply. "I'm serious Sam, why d'you think?"

"To find the thing that killed Mom," Sam muttered. "Don't you understand? I _get_ Dad now. Mom's the one he couldn't save. That's why he does what he does. I can _understand_ that now, Dean. I understand him because I feel the same way!"

Dean whirled away, scarred hands digging into his scalp in frustration. "God you have got it all so wrong," he growled. "Sam, yes, we're gonna find that thing whatever it is and take it down. But you know what the really important thing is? You know why _I_ get mad when you screw something up? It's because we know what's out there, we know how freaking _messed up_ this forsaken world is and _I_ have to make sure you can take care of yourself, because no matter what I'm not gonna lose you!"

Sam opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. He had nothing to say. The silence between them intensified painfully, a widening abyss of pain and unspoken words, misunderstandings and pride. Finally he spoke, his voice reduced to a whisper by the anguish in his heart. He could not hurt Dean. But nor could he survive the way Dean wanted him to. His life was just not as important as his brother seemed to think it was.

"Dean, you won't lose me. But just because we know how bad it is out there means we should try hard as we can to protect those who don't. We're hunters. It's what you've trained me all my life to be and I can't walk away just 'cause you're worried about me."

"I don't want you to walk away," Dean snapped. "I want you to get a lockdown on your crazy head and stop being so damn…" He trailed off.

"Damn what?" Sam said quietly. "What do you want me to do?"

Dean pushed past him and slammed out of the room. "Take your freaking pills," he shouted back through the closed door, and Sam heard him swear viciously, and then their father's absent-minded remonstration. He turned away and slowly crumpled down onto his bed, his head feeling strangely light and empty. Suddenly he felt nothing at all but tired, and yet not sleepy. Tired as in sick of everything, of this whole world that would not let his soul rest or breathe. Maybe a world in which his soul was already dead and faded away, and he just had not realised it yet, and kept moving, walking, acting, reacting, just out of habit, like a puppet powered only be guilt. A spirit by unfinished business. He sat very still, waiting for the lightness to pass. Finally he closed his eyes and started to count to one hundred, trying to re-connect with his mind.

….

Sam spent his lunch period the next day at school in the library, fighting the slowness of the school computers in an effort to work out the missing key of their ghost hunt. As it turned out, John Anderson _did_ have a connection with Jonah Wilkins: it was an almost insignificant detail but he found it on a photograph of a small brass shield, the kind given out as an award for some trivial favour. This shield was to be found at a club called Highrail, not far from Sam's school, which the Anderson family had patronised since the 1920s. Sam smiled unconsciously at the decision-now to find out if any strange deaths might have been associated with this club. If he found any, then he was sure to have found their wayward spirit. At that moment, however, the bell rang to signal the end of lunch period and he bit his lip, wondering what to do. To be honest, he reasoned, it was more important to locate this spirit than to go to his next class; if he could keep somebody from dying the next night it was surely worth cutting one class. He glanced surreptitiously behind him, nervous-he had never skipped class before. And then he turned back to his research.

By the end of the next period he was pretty sure he had the name of the spirit. A club singer named Alice Leigh had been mysteriously killed shortly before the death of Jonah Wilkins-not much was remembered about her, but it was noted that he had been one of her greatest admirers, and that they had had some kind of falling-out shortly before her death. It was right after this that Wilkins had suffered his bloody death. Some things still did not fit the equation, but it was a start at least. Sam knew he could not risk cutting another class-already one might merit a call to his father. But after school ended he decided that he would go up to Highrail himself-he might, if he was lucky, be able to end this tonight.

Highrail might once have been an elegant haunt of wealthy young men, but now it was little more than a rather derelict nightclub with crude and splashy pictures of stars and band logos and half-naked women painted untidily on the walls. The front door was locked but Sam could see lights on upstairs, and climbed over the back wall to try the other door. It opened easily but he knocked anyway, unsure of the correct protocol-nobody came to answer it, so he just walked inside, into the sickly-sweet smelling darkness of the club. He could see nothing but a flight of stairs leading up into shadows: a light flickered faintly at the top and Sam swallowed hard.

"Hello?" he called nervously.

"Who's there?" an annoyed, phlegmatic male voice called the stairs.

"Uh-I have to, uh, speak to the manager?" he tried. His voice sounded very young all of a sudden. He heard creaking footsteps and suddenly the figure of a plump middle-aged man appeared at the top of the stairs, peering down at him from the darkness.

"I am the manager," he said coldly. "But you don't even look old enough to be in here, kid."

Sam twisted his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. "Can I talk to you? It's…for a school project."

The plump man looked hugely annoyed. "On what? Listen, kid, I really don't have the time for this…"

"It's on Highrail's history," Sam said quickly. "The glory days, you know? Uh…they tell me if it's good enough they're even gonna think about trying to print it in some paper."

He could see the man's mind whirring: if such a fictitious article were actually printed, it could do wonders for the economy of a club that obviously wasn't doing too well. Finally he made a grunting, irritated noise and gestured for Sam to come up the stairs into his office. He went ahead, wheezing and grumbling under his breath, and when Sam stepped into the room at the top it was to see him slump into a chair behind a cluttered desk and take a slurp of obviously cold and congealing coffee before turning his attention back to his young visitor.

"So what is it you wanna know?" he demanded heavily. "You could've called first, you know."

"Actually," Sam said. "I was wondering about a couple of funny deaths that happened here about fifty years ago. Alice Leigh and Jonah Wilkins? I don't suppose you know anything about them?"

The man groaned. "Them again. I could swear they haunt this place. Terrible for business…don't you know life's not film noir, kid?"

"I know," Sam agreed quickly_. It's a horror movie instead_. "I was thinking more about their real story. You know, reveal the truth and get away from the rumours."

The plump man put his head in his hands. "Gotta lay off the whiskey in the mornings," he mumbled. "Fine. The Leigh girl was some singer here, not great but okay for a place like this. Wilkins' journal says he got frisky with her one night and carved up her back with a knife or something when she wouldn't go the whole way. Spoilt rich brat, ya know. Used to getting what he wanted. Anyway, she died and he paid the club a lot of money to cover it up. Few days later they find him dead. That's all we know about it."

"He carved up her back?" Sam said with a frown. The manager shrugged.

"So they say."

I wonder if he carved a heart shape, Sam thought. "Okay. And what about the, uh, recent death?"

"You mean my partner?" the manager demanded. Sam cursed himself. "Oh, I didn't realise you knew him…I'm so sorry…"

"Don't be," the manager told him. "Jerk of a partner. Would've sacked him if he hadn't have died. Yeah, don't know anything about that. Probably suicide. He was the kind of loser who'd do something like that."

"But how can you explain the-"

"Hey, do I look like a detective to you, kid? I just know all his bad publicity hasn't done the business any favours."

Sam nodded. "So he did a lot for the place beforehand?"

The manager snorted. "Hell no. Unless you count molesting the performers every time they're blonde and over twenty-one. That sure brought people in, don't ask me why. Crazy world."

"Yeah," Sam said softly. "I guess it is." He stood up. "Uh, thanks, sir. I…I better be going now but that was very interesting. Thanks for your time."

The manager looked almost disappointed. "Oh, that's it?"

"I think I got enough for now," Sam said. "But maybe I can call you if I think of anything else?"

"I guess." The man stuck his hand in the pocket of his shirt and pulled out a crumpled card, bearing the name Robert Sheldon and a telephone number. Sam took it, thanking him again, and moved towards the door. He was just about to leave when Sheldon called him back, sounding vaguely embarrassed. "Hey-kid."

Sam turned back. Sheldon was squirming in his seat. "Kid-don't make out in your article like I hated him or anything, I mean we were kinda friends. Old friends. And it's not like he was the only one with those blondes, I mean it was a joint thing, you shouldn't think he was some…"

Sam nodded fast. "Sure. Don't worry. I…I'll give the right impression." And then he was out of that door and almost running down the stairs, suddenly desperate to get out of that sordid, stinking little club with the death and money and sex that ruled it and drove it mad over and over again.

…..

Sam pushed open the door to the apartment and immediately Dean was in his face, yelling full-force: "_What the hell d'you think you're playing at, Sammy? Disappearing like that with no call, no explanation_-"

"I'm only an hour late," Sam said.

"Only a _freaking hour_? Anything could've happened to you, I can't believe you can be so selfish sometimes, don't you think after your last fiasco I'd be worried about you? What the hell were you doing?"

"It's cold out here," Sam told him. "Can you let me in the door please?"

Dean, speechless with rage and relief, swore and whirled away inside.

…

"So I think it's that Alice Leigh girl who killed Wilkins, and then whatever Anderson and Sheldon were up to with the other performers must've recalled her, mirroring what had killed her in a way. Which means that she's probably going to go after Sheldon next, so we should go and get her bones burned before it's too late. Just need to find out where she's buried." Sam sat back, folding his arms: his father and brother just _looked_ at him.

"So _this_ is what you were doing when you disappeared into the ether," Dean muttered. John shot him a quelling glance.

"Sam, don't you think you're being a little…overeager about this?" he said cautiously. Sam's eyes popped wide open and he sat bolt upright.

"_Overeager_?"

John held up his hands. "It's worth thinking about this is all. We still don't know it's Alice Leigh and it'd be worth talking to any family she has left. I guess you didn't think of looking for them?"

"No," Sam said. "But Sheldon's in danger right now! We should be protecting him!"

John assessed his youngest son with a critical, concerned eye. Sam's face was pale and his eyes burned almost feverishly. He knew that during the seven or eight days since he had left the hospital that terrible choking cough had eased a lot, but he was by no means convinced that the boy was out of the woods yet, and he was not prepared to risk his life again. "You know?" he said. "I'll go out and see if I can find Sheldon. Dean, you go down to the library and try to track down the girl's grave. Sam, I want you to stay here and get a few more solid facts before we go rushing into this."

"I can't stay here!" Sam protested immediately. "Dad…"

John silenced him with a blazing look. "That's an order. If you want to accelerate this hunt then you do as _I_ tell you, Sam, you understand me?"

For just an instant Sam held his father's ferocious glare, then dropped his eyes. "Yessir," he mumbled.

Dean and John left in their respective directions, leaving Sam alone in the apartment. He sat there where he was for a few more minutes, then pulled his father's laptop towards him and moodily jabbed at a few keys. Then abruptly he slammed it shut. This was ridiculous. Why wouldn't they listen? Why couldn't they see how urgent this was? This man could _die_ tonight, die because _they_ failed him. Because Sam failed him like he had failed Mike.

_You should never have had to die for my mistakes…I'm so sorry_…

Impulsively he stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. He shoved his keys and his cellphone into his pocket, then picked up his backpack, emptying it of schoolbooks, and filled it instead with one of the several cans of lighter fluid set around the room, a salt shaker and his knife and a lighter. Weaponry. Swiftly he scribbled a quick note, just in case Dean returned before he did, then slipped out of the apartment without a backwards glance and headed down in the clunky old elevator to the street. Darkness was already gathering, casting a grey shroud over the sky: if Robert Sheldon's death was to be tonight then he did not have much time. He disappeared into the maze of the city like a shadow, or a ghost, in search of a reason to live. In search of a life to save.

**Hope you enjoyed this! Reviews are inspiration!**


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